


A PIXY IN 
PETTICOATS 

JOHN TREVENA 






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A PIXY IN PETTICOATS 




A PIXY IN 
PETTICOATS 



NEW YORK: 

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY 
1909 




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CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. HOW BURROUGH PLAYED ROBINSON 

CRUSOE I 

II. HOW BURROUGH HAD THE VISION . . 9 

III. HOW BURROUGH WALKED WITH BEATRICE 20 

IV. HOW BURROUGH VISITED BEDLAM . . 30 

V. HOW BEATRICE CULTIVATED LOCAL 

TALENT 38 

VI. HOW THEY BOILED A KETTLE IN THE 

devil’s kitchen .... 47 

VII. HOW BURROUGH CHATTED WITH A 

FELLOW-SCHOLAR .... 63 

VIII. HOW THEY WENT SWALING • • • 73 

IX. HOW THEY PLAYED AT HIDE-AND-SEEK . 86 

X. HOW THEY SAT UPON THE PIXIES’ 

BOWLING-GREEN 96 

XI. HOW THE SCHOLAR FAILED IN ORIENTAL 

LANGUAGES IO9 

XII. HOW THEY STARTED FOR THE MOTHER 

OF RIVERS I2I 

vii 


Contents 


XIII. HOW THEY STOOD UPON CRANMERE . I34 

XIV. HOW THEY TOOK SHELTER IN TOM-TIT- 

tot’s palace ..... 147 

XV. HOW BEATRICE TOLD THE STORY OF 

TREGEAGLE 157 

XVI. HOW BURROUGH BECAME A DUMMY MAN I70 

XVII. HOW TONGUES WENT WAGGING IN THE 

VILLAGE 180 

XVIII. HOW BEATRICE FORGOT TO BE FRIVOLOUS I95 
XIX. HOW BURROUGH SPOKE FOOLISHLY . . 206 

XX. HOW THEY SEARCHED FOR WHITE 

HEATHER 2 l 8 

XXL HOW THEY WENT INTO THE COPSE . 23O 

XXII. HOW WILLUM WENT ROUND WITH A 

PAPER 242 

XXIII. HOW BURROUGH LONGED TO ENTER 

LYONESSE 256 

XXIV. HOW BURROUGH RECEIVED VISITORS . *271 

XXV. HOW BEATRICE SAT IN THE DIMPSY . 288 

XXVI. HOW IT WAS DREARY BESIDE THE GORGE 3OI 
XXVII. HOW BURROUGH WENT TO DART HEAD . 3I3 


A PIXY IN PETTICOATS. 


CHAPTER I. 

HOW BURROUGH PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE. 

The first thing John Burrough saw, when he had 
crossed the bog, was a crumpled newspaper lying upon 
the turf beside the river. He paused to regard it with a 
frown. Crusoe himself could not have been much more 
surprised at beholding the footprint upon the sand in his 
desert island. 

By the presence of that piece of paper Burrough knew 
that his secret nook had been discovered. Someone 
shared his secret. Someone had found a way through 
the bog to the bend in the river, and had dared thus to 
desecrate the spot. The secret was out. Burrough 
sighed when he reflected that a crowd of holiday-makers 
might invade his solitude at any moment. 

The river was the East Okement upon Dartmoor. It 
came sliding down a bed of stone, which was here and 
there as smooth as a billiard-table, tumbled over a suc- 
cession of ledges, and finally swept round a bend to 
enter the little patch of unexplored territory which 
Burrough had made his own. 

p.p. 


B 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

At the foot of a descent, so steep as to be generally 
avoided, stretched an immense bog always choked with 
water, even in summer, because it was fed by springs — 
the largest could be seen bubbling like a miniature 
fountain not very far from that obnoxious piece of paper. 
Apparently there was no pathway through this bog. 
Beyond was a towering fortification, composed of blocks 
of granite covered with black and grey lichens, and piled 
one upon the other in a wild confusion which was yet 
suggestive of method. 

On the opposite side of the tiny river sloped a precipice 
almost sheer in places, everywhere covered with trees, 
oak, ash, and beech, plentifully besprinkled with horn- 
beam, hazel, and mountain-ash. That precipice was a 
wall of mud and saturated mosses. No wonder the 
foliage was so green and bright. Red streamlets trickled 
into the river after filtration through the bog forest. At 
the summit pink-coned larches could be seen nodding 
against the intense blue of the sky ; lower, the wine- 
coloured plumes of a copper-beech ; still lower the 
silvery bark of birches. A rowan covered with creamy 
blooms dipped to the river as though admiring its beauty 
in the broken water. Beneath its branches appeared 
pink spikes of rose-bay, and raspberry canes covered 
with unripe fruit. 

Draping the boggy wall were ferns in tropical luxuri- 
ance. The royal osmunda could be seen in clumps and 
thickets ; fronds, ten feet in length, bending to touch the 
shining water, or towering towards the oak-leaves. 
Beside the river was a natural arm-chair of granite, 
comfortably upholstered with golden mosses. There 
Burrough lolled day after day reading or writing. Below 
2 


Burrough Plays Robinson Crusoe. 

was a pool free from rocks and bedded with yellow sand. 
Black trout were always waiting for what the river might 
bring down to them, and very little in awe of the man in 
the granite chair. Probably they regarded him as the 
very latest kind of Dartmoor pony. Burrough seated 
himself, lighted a cigarette, and tried to forget that 
crumpled sheet of paper. He looked at the tender ivy 
trailing across the blocks of granite, at a brown lizard 
flashing by, and a viper basking on a warm shelf. 
Butterflies flitted past, bees were working in and out of 
their nests, flycatchers flirted their tails upon the rocks, 
and to the music of the birds was added the sleepy 
symphony of the river singing about the big stones. 

“ Bother that newspaper,’’ said Burrough. 

He rose and went about his tiny kingdom, to search 
for other traces of the unwarrantable intrusion. Just 
below the pool a tiny island divided the river. The main 
current swept beneath a tangle of boughs, caused by the 
trees of the eyot and those of the bog forest hanging over 
and meeting, compelling the stickles to descend through 
perpetual twilight. The smaller channel separated the 
eyot from the great quaking bog. There the water, 
slightly tinged with sulphate of iron, could be seen 
bubbling restlessly amid the brilliant mosses. The edge 
of the bog appeared to have broken out into a scarlet 
rash, into numerous red blotches rather suggestive of 
tiny scraps of raw meat. These were carnivorous sun- 
dews, hard at work catching and eating flies. Beyond 
the sundew shambles were the olive-green leaves and 
tender grey flowers of the bog violet ; and all along the 
“coast-line” of the eyot were big clumps of bog 
asphodel. 

B 2 


3 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Burrough breathed a sigh of relief. The affairs of his 
kingdom appeared to be in perfect order. There were 
no tins nor bottles, nor any sign of the past pleasures of 
a picnicking party. He decided to burn the offending 
paper and then forget all about it ; but before doing so 
he thought it advisable to go through the eyot, which was 
not, strictly speaking, a part of his kingdom, but merely 
a dependant state. 

The young man reached the eyot by means of the 
great stones which during the winter were submerged. 
Once there he had to imagine himself a tailed being. 
Progress could only be made by resorting to Simian 
methods, on account of the huge boulders, the hidden 
pools, and the tropical luxuriance of the undergrowth. 
The water-birds, which had their nests among the 
sedges, were not unduly alarmed by his presence. 
Sometimes, while feeling for a safe spot to rest upon, his 
foot crushed the shells of eggs which had lately given 
forth young birds. The river was just visible as it 
tumbled from one shelf of rock to another. At the other 
end of the eyot the channels united to plunge away 
between two steep and shining walls of stone. There 
tall thickets of osmunda lifted their flowering plumes 
where the rough winds could not reach, and every rock 
was covered with asphodel, and the banks of the bog 
were lurid with mosses of every tint. Burrough balanced 
himself upon a giant's pebble and looked upward. He 
saw a dense wavering screen composed of oak foliage 
and that of rowan, mingled with long fern fronds, and 
for background the river falling and flashing in lines of 
silver. It was as though the river was forcing itself 
between the boughs and leaves and fronds; that it was 
4 


Burrough Plays Robinson Crusoe. 

the weight of the water, not the motion of the breeze, 
which caused them to sway and dance. Burrough gazed 
upon the scene with the selfish joy of knowing he had 
the place to himself. No one saw the beauties of that 
hidden nook except himself. He began to assure him- 
self that the crumpled newspaper had been carried over 
the precipice by a wind, and had not been dropped by 
any invader. 

Then his eyes fell upon a dry sand-spit at the foot of 
a rock, beneath the thicket of osmunda. Right in the 
centre appeared the impression of a single footprint. 

There was no mistake. It was a woman’s footprint, 
in spite of its ridiculous smallness. There was the deep 
imprint made by the heel — a half-crown would have 
covered it. There was the dainty point. Burrough 
wondered how five pink feminine toes could possibly be 
compressed within so slight a compass. 

In fancy Burrough saw the hand which had dropped 
that piece of paper. He could guess what it was like 
after looking at that footprint. Give a distinguished 
palaeontologist the fossil bone of some extinct species, 
and he will proceed to construct and describe the 
creature by that one bone. In like manner Burrough 
built up the perfect image of the unknown damsel, who 
had penetrated into the interior of his little kingdom, and 
had dared to desecrate it by throwing paper about, by 
that single tiny footprint in the sand. 

She was young. That was certain, because none but 
an agile girl could have fought her way across the eyot. 
She was small. That was evident by the ridiculous foot- 
print. The young man decided she was dark, with bright 
colour, eyes of deep blue, rather thick eyebrows, and 
5 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

laughing mouth. He arrived at this conclusion because 
he knew such a face would look exceedingly well against 
the thicket of osmunda and the falling water. He decided 
she would be dressed in grey, and he added a ribbon at 
her waist. He was not sure of the colour of that ribbon. It 
was a tan shoe that had made the imprint. He was sure 
of that. It suited the grey skirt exactly. 

The young man drew a tape-measure from his pocket. 
He carried it about with him for the purpose of measur- 
ing the stone remains upon the moor. He was finding 
out all he could about these remains, because he intended 
to write a book on the subject. The sort of book a 
few people might buy, to adorn a table or shelf, but 
nobody would ever read. 

This was much better than measuring hoary antiquities 
of the stone age. Already he was far more interested in 
that footprint than in all the remains of prehistoric man. 
From heel to toe six inches and a fraction. He did not 
record the measurement in his note-book. Somehow he 
felt sure he would remember it; and, as a matter of 
fact, his memory justified the confidence he placed in it. 

The crumpled sheet of newspaper was not nearly so 
objectionable an object as it had been. Indeed, it was 
with quite friendly eyes that Burrough regarded it when 
he returned from the eyot. Had a man dropped it there, 
or some picnicking matron, or even any ordinary young 
person, the act would have remained unpardonable. But 
the girl with the dainty footprint might surely do as she 
pleased. She was quite justified in leaving it there, for 
how could she be expected to carry it about with her if 
she did not require it ? Really it was not an eyesore at 
all. It looked rather well lying crumpled upon the turf 
6 


Burrough Plays Robinson Crusoe. 

beside a clump of whortleberries. That secluded nook 
had needed a civilising touch, and now it had been 
supplied by the kindly thought and gracious presence of 
the fair invader. Something was gleaming beside the 
newspaper. It was a hairpin — not a common, unsightly, 
black object, but a slender golden hairpin, delicately 
shaped and deliciously fragrant. 

So the unknown was a fair girl, and not dark, as he had 
supposed. She would not secure dark tresses with a 
golden hairpin. Burrough constructed her over again. 
The face was much the same — rather less colour, per- 
haps — and the eyes were grey. The figure was a trifle 
fuller, and the frock was of some dark material. He did 
not remove the tan shoes, but he added brown silk 
stockings to match. 

Burrough slipped the hairpin into his pocket. He 
thought it would come in handy for cleaning his pipe. 
Then he picked up the piece of paper. It was damp, 
and so he knew it must have been dropped the day before. 
It would have been in the evening, for he had been there 
till four o’clock on the previous afternoon. He opened 
the paper and shook it out, then dropped it with a 
shudder. It seemed to him that the folds were smeared 
with stains like blood. 

He had forgotten those horrible things which are the 
lot of human beings — sickness, sorrowing, suffering, and 
death. But when he looked up he saw upon a patch of 
ground, which made the centre of a small amphitheatre 
of rocks, the carcase of a horned mountain sheep, every 
bit of flesh well cleaned from its ribs and skull. Around 
were evidences of a struggle. The greater portion of 
the fleece was twisted into a shapeless mass, but scraps 
7 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

of wool were held upon every bramble and gorse-bush, 
and here and there were wisps torn from the poor hunted 
creature by its ravenous pursuers. That sheep had been 
hunted, dragged down, and destroyed by starving dogs. 
Burrough knew that another carcase — that of a pony — 
was lying in a hole just beyond the wall of rocks. Those 
bones, too, were white and well-cleaned by the busy ants. 
The hide had been gnawed by dogs, and nest- making 
birds had found the mane and tail very useful. That 
pony had been bitten by a viper. Burrough remembered 
it when he saw the red stains upon the piece of paper. 

The next minute he was laughing. He had spread 
out the paper, and other marks became at once visible. 

“ My lady is an aristocrat,” he said ; “ she has blue 
blood.” 

After all, the paper had only been used for cleaning 
paint-brushes. Probably the Lady of the Footprint had 
been trying to put the sunset upon canvas — it was just 
the sort of impossible task a pretty young girl would 
attempt — and the blood-red stains represented the fiery 
clouds, and the blue smears were the sky above. Bur- 
rough pushed the paper into a gorse-bush and burnt it, 
bush and all. After all, he was sorry he had discovered 
it. He was glad he had found the golden hairpin and 
the footprint. But the piece of paper remained an 
unsightly object. He could not forget how it had 
reminded him, if only for a moment, of the destroying 
dogs and the malevolent viper. 


8 


CHAPTER 11. 


HOW BURROUGH HAD THE VISION. 

Burrough was thirty-five, at which age most men have 
closed the romantic chapter of their lives. Most men 
also go forth as knight-errants to seek their adventures ; 
Burrough had waited for his to come to him. He did 
not look his age. He was a handsome giant, slightly 
over six feet in height, and broad in proportion ; his face 
was clean-shaven ; his hair was fair ; his eyes were blue. 
He was also clever — too clever for the work-a-day world. 
He had taken classical honours ; only a second-class 
because his health broke down. For some years he 
managed to maintain himself by contributing essays and 
reviews to various periodicals, until the atmosphere of 
Fleet Street became too much for his lungs, and, on the 
advice of an eminent specialist, he removed to Dart- 
moor, where he built a tiny cottage beside a gorge, 
in a dreary solitude upon the moor near the village of 
Lew. 

He became well and strong in the bracing air, but 
with the return of health came also the sense of his 
loneliness. His cottage was quite apart from the village. 
It was surrounded by great boulders of granite, heather, 
gorse, bracken and whortleberries. He could not afford 
a housekeeper. A woman came out from the village 
twice a week to put the place in order. For the rest he 
9 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

was alone. He mended his own clothes and prepared 
his own meals. 

Being clever with his hands, Burrough had assisted 
in the building of his cottage. He had done all the 
painting and made a good deal of the furniture. The 
interior was really comfortable. The cottage was not 
beautiful externally ; it was built of granite and roofed 
with corrugated iron. Creepers would not grow up it on 
account of the winds. Gorse and heather were thick 
beside the walls. The windows overlooked a gorge. In 
winter the water in this gorge would rise and roar so 
loudly as to make conversation difficult. Not much con- 
versation took place in the cottage. Burrough had only 
his cat to argue with. 

Within, the change was startling. To cross the 
threshold was literally to step from dreariness into 
comfort. One step led from the barren moor into a 
room of refinement : one second it was granite, bog, and 
heath ; the next green curtains, shaded lamps, old books, 
and pictures. Burrough was proud of his little home. 
Every morning he swept and dusted it while he waited 
for the kettle to boil. He never allowed his fire to go 
out. It was easy to smother it with a couple of turves 
before going to bed, and these turves were always warm 
and glowing in the morning. 

Burrough felt that a change had come over him as he 
walked back from the secret nook, with the hairpin in his 
pocket, and the measurement of the tiny footprint in his 
brain. A change had come over the weather too ; black 
clouds were racing across the High Willhays range, and 
the rain began before the ugly tin roof of the cottage 
beside the gorge appeared beneath the tors. Burrough 
10 


How Burrough had the Vision. 

liked to feel the wind and rain. The storm suited his 
mood. How foolish he had been to try and banish the 
thoughts of love ! He thought he had not needed it. He 
thought he could live and work without it. He had kept 
his inclinations subdued for years, but some force had 
been secretly at work undermining his resolution all the 
time. He had always been a shy man in the presence 
of women. He had envied the ease with which young 
fellows would address girls, while he would withdraw to 
a corner and look on, feeling somehow that such pleasures 
were not for him. He did not know how to address 
young women of his own class. He had nothing to 
offer them. He believed that a woman would not look 
at a man if he could not give her fine clothes, jewellery, 
a mansion, position in society, and as much money to 
spend as she wanted. That had always been his wrong- 
headed idea of love. It was what the world had taught 
him. Love was a thing to be bought easily, and won 
with difficulty. 

Burrough neglected his work that evening. Outside 
the wind howled, and the water in the gorge roared. He 
sat in his easy-chair, smoking more than was good for 
him, worrying over his poverty, and thinking all the time 
of the golden hairpin in his pocket and the dainty foot- 
print in the sand. His big black cat was seated on the 
rug, blinking at the flames, and purring a short stave 
whenever he felt the touch of his master’s foot. 

“Advise me. King o’ the Cats,” said Burrough at 
length. He was accustomed thus to address his sole 
companion. “ Don’t you think it’s folly and madness 
for a man to live alone ? If there are more women than 
men in the world, surely there must be one for me. I’m 
II 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

in love at the present moment, King o’ the Cats, 
hopelessly in love, over head and ears in love, you blinking, 
purring, many-wived Solomon. No man has ever been 
more in love, though I don’t know who she is. Attend 
to me — rake, roui^ blast old bigamist I Why should I 
keep you in affluence and much matrimony, and myself 
in poverty and singleness of life ? Tell me that. King 
o’ the Cats. I have as much right to my one wife as you 
to your dozen.” 

Peter yawned, and made preparations for slumber. 

“ She wouldn’t come here though,” Burrough went 
on. “ She wouldn’t come to the doll’s house, to my 
granite ark with its roof of tin. It would be coming 
down too low. King o’ the Cats. She couldn’t do it. 
Fancy her trailing silks and laces, and all the fluffy 
wonders women wear, across the bog, through the 
heather and gorse, and over the granite. She would 
have to array her sweet self in canvas, sackcloth, tar- 
paulins. She would not give up her world of fashion, 
and the world of shops, for miserable me. Turn hermit 
in the wilderness for a wretched man, a fool of a man, 
a beast of a penniless man. What a mad idea it is, old 
King Peter ! No wonder you yawn. I make you tired. 
Sit up, my beauty, sit up in your majesty, and purr to me 
truly whether there be in this rolling sphere, between the 
poles thereof, maid or widow, not younger than twenty, nor 
yet older than thirty, who would take John Burrough by the 
hand, and say, ‘ I will ’ ? Is there one who would say, ‘ I 
will come under your tin roof for better or for worse ? ’ ” 

Peter scratched his right ear vigorously. Burrough 
went across the room, and returned to his chair with an 
armful of classics. 


12 


How Burrough had the Vision. 

“ What do the poets say ? Leave your ear alone, King 
o’ the Cats. I will make it smart and tingle before I 
have done. Goddess of the golden hairpin, goddess of 
the small brown shoe, what do the wise men say of you ? 

‘ Not any man shall escape, not even the gods. Love, 
thou triumphest even over gold.’ No, no, Sophocles. 
It won’t do. Every man has his price, and even Cupid 
is corruptible. A millionaire will buy up the boy’s whole 
stock. ‘ Take away the pleasures of love from life, and 
there is nothing left but to die.’ That’s the opinion of 
Marcus Aurelius, most excellent ear-scratcher. I observe 
you wink sympathetically. ‘ A woman is a great evil,’ 
says Euripides. ‘ Faithless is the female race.’ Out 
upon you, swarthy Greek. What do the gallant Romans 
say ? ‘ Love and wisdom are incompatible.’ Do you 

hear that. King o’ the Cats ? We must give up our wise 
ways. * Love is full of bitterness,’ declares Plautus, and 
Terence quite agrees with him ; but Plautus is man and 
brother enough to admit there is honey with the gall. Ovid 
states that the disease is incurable, the which I doubt. It 
is easily conveyed. True ! It may be communicated by 
a hairpin, for instance. Now let me try the Sortes 
Virgilianae. ‘ Love conquers all things, and we must 
yield to love.’ That is the conclusion of the whole matter.” 

Burrough pushed the books from his knee, and sat 
frowning at the fire. 

“Eh, my pussy,” he said sadly, stroking his favourite’s 
head. “We are a pair of puir fules. Watch me go 
forth to-morrow to my sunny hollow beyond the bog. 
You shall see me with my hose ungartered, my bonnet 
unbanded, my sleeve unbuttoned, my shoe untied, and 
everything about me demonstrating a careless desolation. 

13 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

That might have been all very well in the days of 
chivalry, eh, Chat Noir P In this present unpoetic age 
I should be dubbed a male slut, even if I could unbutton 
my sleeve or unband my bonnet.” 

Burrough indulged in a good deal of such vicious 
rhetoric before going to bed. The next morning it was 
raining. He went down to the secret nook beside the 
river, although he could not have expected to find any- 
thing of surpassing interest. The ferns were drooping, 
the river had risen, the blooms of the rowan and rose- 
bays looked draggled and tawdry; they were like the 
artificial flowers on some Italian altar. There was an 
odour of mud in the wind. Burrough climbed back to 
the moorland track, and took the way which led into the 
village. 

The vicar was standing at his garden door. The 
vicarage was nothing more than a long cottage thatched 
with rushes. Mr. Yeoland was an old man, weak, 
childish, and entirely incapable of performing his slight 
duties. He clung somehow to life and office, the former 
a burden because of his weakness, the latter a sinecure 
since all the villagers went to chapel. The old man 
lived alone with a housekeeper, who scolded him, and 
sometimes pushed him about roughly when she was the 
worse for liquor. The old man spent most of his time 
in the house sitting in a state of lethargy. Two or three 
times a day he would shuffle to his garden door, which 
was overshadowed by a large sycamore, and ogle the 
girls as they passed. 

Mr. Yeoland was not alone. A girl stood beneath the 
sycamore talking to him. She was of medium height, 
neither slender nor plump. She had gathered up her 


How Burrough had the Vision. 

skirts boldly, possibly on account of the mud, possibly 
because a pretty ankle was not made to be hidden. A 
tiny tan shoe nestled in the mud, and above was the 
brown silk stocking of Burrough’s fancy. It fulfilled its 
purpose in a shapely manner, until it disappeared, melted 
away into, or became blended with, a summer cloud of 
diaphanous wonders. Her back was towards Burrough, 
but he could see that her hair was dark brown, and that 
it was studded with little gleaming points like fireflies. 
She wore a white tam-o’-shanter. Secured to it on the 
left side was a jewelled butterfly with wings outspread. 

Burrough came to a stand beside the wall opposite, 
where he could both see and hear. The Vicar did not 
appear to notice him. The old man was chuckling in 
his senile way, delighted at having caught the young lady 
as she passed. His speech was affected. He spoke out 
of the corner of his mouth, and every word was 
accompanied by a grimace. 

“ Go along with you,” Burrough heard him say with a 
sly chuckle. 

The young lady laughed. It was not a particularly 
pleasing laugh, Burrough thought. Yet he was singu- 
larly anxious to hear it again. He saw her put up a 
bare hand to brush the hair back from her forehead. 

‘‘ I’ll pull it,” said the amorous old man, putting out 
his trembling hand. “I will. I’ll pull it.” 

“ You will not,” said the young lady, rather coldly 
Burrough thought, as she stepped back from the 
uninviting caress. 

“ If I was forty years younger,” mumbled the Vicar 
out of the corner of his mouth, “ I’d take off my white 
tie, and we’d go on the spree.” 

15 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ Are you so sure I would come with you ? ” said she. 

A gust of wind passed through the sycamore and 
brought down a shower of big drops. The young lady 
moved and cried, “ What have you in the garden — any- 
thing.? May I go in and pick some flowers for my 
room ? ” 

“ Nothing but weeds,” mumbled the Vicar. The 
garden^s like me — rough and ready.” 

“ But I can see some syringa,” said she, raising herself 
on tip-toe. 

“ There are snakes in that long grass,” the Vicar 
warned her, as she was about to enter. 

“ Tm not afraid of them. I like them,” came the answer. 

Afraid of mice ? ” he chuckled. 

“ Love them,” she declared. 

And men ? ” he went on. 

Silly apes,” she laughed. 

They went into the garden. Burrough crossed the 
road, whipped the tape-measure from his pocket, and 
measured the tiny imprint in the mud. 

“ It is she,” he murmured. 

He waited about beside the wall. From time to time 
he heard a merry laugh, and the mumbling of old 
Yeoland, who was probably trying to steal a kiss among 
the syringa. Burrough could not believe she would 
permit that dirty and unpleasant old man to approach 
her. While he waited the rain ceased and a flash of 
sunlight pierced the clouds. It struck upon the garden, 
and he heard the exclamation, “ The sun ! I must go.” 

A moment later the girl stood in the doorway, and 
Burrough saw her face at last. 

She was like a bride with orange-blossoms. She held 

i6 


How Burrough had the Vision. 

a quantity of syringa covered with pearly rain-drops. 
The rain was in her dark-brown hair too, and upon her 
face, and it was sprinkled upon her tam-o’-shanter where 
the jewelled butterfly quivered in the sunshine. She was 
not pretty. She had not a single good feature. Her 
skin was brown. Her nose was not straight. It was a 
maddening face. No one who fell in love with that face 
could ever love another. 

When she saw Burrough she swished round, and said 
to the Vicar, who was hobbling amorously in her wake, 

Thanks very much for the syringa, but I don’t know 
what I shall do with it now I’ve got it. The scent is too 
heady for a room.” 

“ Have it beside your bed. Then you’ll dream of me,” 
the old man muttered. 

“ I should wake with a headache, and pitch it out of 
the window.” 

** As Gerard did,” said Burrough as the Vicar appeared, 
addressing himself to the old man. Good morning, 
Mr. Yeoland.” 

Good morning,” said the Vicar, somewhat gruffly, 
as he did not like to have such little affairs interrupted. 

“ Good morning,” murmured the young lady. “As 
Mr. Yeoland does not introduce me. As a matter of 
fact I’ve never been introduced to him. One doesn’t 
stand upon ceremony much in a mountain village.” 

Her eyes said plainly enough, “ You spoke to me first.” 
Which was true. 

“Gerard. Who’s he ? ” mumbled the Vicar. 

“ The sixteenth-century herbalist,” Burrough replied. 

“ Bookworm, pedant, scholar, idiot,” was what he 
thought the girl’s eyes were saying to him then. 

p.p. 17 


c 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ I must go and take my auntie for a stroll/’ was what 
her tongue said, as she moved away a step, shaking the 
rain from her dainty skirts. She’s like a butterfly. 
Comes out when the sun shines. Goes in when it 
doesn’t. It sounds giddy.” 

“ Go along ! Naughty girl ! ” chuckled the Vicar. 

“ I see you are out in all weathers,” Burrough ventured, 
yet without looking at her. 

“ Morning, noon, and night,” she laughed. “ Up 
with the lark, out all day, and in with the — ^what are the 
things that fly about at night, Mr. Yeoland ? ” 

“ Bats,” croaked the Vicar. 

“ Beast ! ” she cried. 

“ Owls,” he chuckled, his face distorted with mirth. 

“ My eyes are not big and round, and I do not shriek 
at nights.” 

“ I think you mean moths,” Burrough said nervously. 

“ Moths. Yes, the stupid things fly into our lamp and 
roast themselves. Auntie says, ‘ poor dears,’ and tries 
to rescue them. I say, let the idiots grill if it gives them 
such enjoyment. They ought to have the sense to keep 
in the dark. Directly they come into the light they lose 
their heads.” 

“And their lives,” Burrough added. 

“ But I like the beetles,” the girl rattled on. “ They 
are such jolly old boys. I believe they are always on 
the spree, and they never know what they’re doing. Last 
night I was out and I heard one coming — boom ! He 
came crack upon my nose, nearly splitting it, and it’s 
crooked enough already, then he fell on the road, and 
cussed. Presently a lot of clockwork or something went 
whirr inside him. He got up, fell back again, said he 

i8 


How Burrough had the Vision. 

was all right, then tried again. He got off that time, 
boomed hard for a dozen yards, then charged a wall — 
bang ! I left him lying on his back in the road, kicking 
and swearing. Really he wanted someone to look after 
him.” 

“Like me,” mumbled the Vicar. 

“ I must run,” said the girl. “ Good-bye.” 

She nodded, laughed, and was off at full speed. 


C 2 


19 


CHAPTER III. 

HOW BURROUGH WALKED WITH BEATRICE. 

Towards evening Burrough had the vision again. In 
the interval he had made inquiries. Her name was 
Beatrice Pentreath ; her home was in Cornwall ; and she 
lived with a maiden aunt of uncertain age. They came 
upon Dartmoor every summer. The woman who cleaned 
Burrough’s cottage had a poor opinion of the young lady, 
because it was her custom to ride astride like a man, she 
was shamelessly plainspoken, and had a disgusting habit 
of using tobacco in the form of cigarettes. 

“ And she’s been seen on the moor, naked — naked, 
sir,” went on the matron in a tragic manner. 

Further questioning elicited the statement that Miss 
Beatrice went up Taw Marsh sometimes to bathe in one 
of the river pools ; and after bathing she would run 
about to dry herself. There was nothing very shocking 
about that, the region being exceedingly lonely, and the 
chances of the young lady being detected in her Garden 
of Eden gambols therefore exceedingly slight. 

Who saw her ? ” Burrough asked. 

‘‘ Don’t matter who saw her,” said the matron severely. 

She was seen from Oke Tor. Not even a towel round 
her, sir.” 

Oke Tor is a long way from the river,” Burrough 
20 


How Burrough walked with Beatrice. 

said, and added impatiently, “ Why shouldn’t she bathe ? 
I have been up there to bathe too.” 

“ You’re a gentleman, sir,” the good woman reminded 
him. 

Burrough was not listening. He was thinking how 
well that tinted skin would look against the pink heather 
and grey granite. He thought too of the little pool of 
black trout at the secret nook, where he had discovered 
the footprint and the piece of paper, and he wondered if 
she had ever bathed there. 

It was in the village Burrough met her. She was alone. 
At first he thought he would turn back, as the sight of 
her made him nervous ; but he reflected she had pro- 
bably seen him, and his flight would look ridiculous. He 
decided to pass her, and bow if she chose to acknowledge 
his presence. 

“ Good evening,” she said, as they drew together. 

His first impression had been correct. That face was 
maddening. He stopped, feeling as though he had just 
swallowed something strong and burning. He looked 
down, and saw a tiny tan shoe nestling in the dust beside 
his big boot. He looked up, and caught her eyes. He 
did not know how she was dressed ; but he was aware 
she was bare-headed, and that her hair was dark-brown. 
He could smell syringa, and he supposed she was wearing 
some of that which she had obtained from the Vicar 
during the rain-storm. 

“ Are you going for a walk ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, I’m off duty. My auntie is as sleepy as a 
dormouse, and is hugged over the fire. The room was 
too hot for me, so I came out among the moths and 
beetles — and — it’s lonely dull in the evenings.” 

21 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

The scented languorous atmosphere of early summer 
was about them, that atmosphere so dangerous to youth 
and innocence. Burrough felt the charm working upon 
him with every breath of that warm air. There was too 
much fragrance. In winter there was not enough. In 
his cottage there was the odour of stale tobacco and the 
musty smell of books. It was lonely dull ” in the 
evenings there. 

“ Have you ever seen the aftermath from the top of the 
village ? ” he asked her timidly. 

“ Let me think,” said she, laughing, but a trifle puzzled. 

I mean the glow in the sky above High Willhays,” 
he explained. 

“I’ve seen it,” she replied; then added, “And I 
should like to see it again.” 

Side by side they began to ascend the hill. Burrough 
had only once before been a maiden’s squire. While 
living in London he went one night to a music hall, 
and found himself sitting next to a girl who was un- 
accompanied. A remark led up to a conversation. 
After the entertainment he had the politeness to escort 
her as far as her door-step. The following Sunday 
he met her by appointment and they walked in the 
Park. She was a good-looking girl, and he thought he 
would improve her mind. The girl, however, did not 
want her mind improved. After she had met the young 
man a few times, and found that he had not the sense or 
inclination to respond to the hints she gave him, she 
transferred her affections to someone more demonstrative. 

Of course the shop-girl of the London days was not to 
be thought of in comparison with the young lady at his 
side. He thought of Beatrice’s bathing exploits, and the 
22 


How Burrough walked with Beatrice. 

drying process found favour in his eyes. It showed 
virtue, naturalness, freedom of soul, and purity of mind. 
No prude would do such a thing as expose herself to 
Nature, because it is a commonplace that a prude is at 
heart a rake. 

“You live in a little crooked house?” Beatrice said 
suddenly. 

“ Cottage,” he amended. “ Quite a shell. I feel that 
I ought to carry it about with me like a snail.” 

“And you walk a crooked mile to get to it, and 
you have a crooked cat,” she went on, with a gasp of 
laughter, humming the old nursery rhyme. “ You must 
take care you don’t become a crooked man,” she added. 

“ How do you know about me or my cat ? ” he asked her. 

“You live in a Dartmoor village, and ask me that 
question. Don’t you know that your down-sittings and 
up-risings are known long before ? The villagers have 
nothing to do but gossip. Whenever I want to know how 
I am getting on, I go and ask one of them. If you 
cannot remember how you have spent your time, they 
will enlighten you, and add side-lights upon your 
character which are both instructive and interesting. 
Old Ann Cobbledick, our landlady, has told me your 
history ; and if you are interested in the future she 
will tell you that too. You are a source of great 
vexation to Ann.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Burrough. 

“ She wants you to have a housekeeper, so that she 
may have a new scandal to discuss and circulate. Of 
course, there is plenty of scandal about you, but there 
does not appear to be anything very solid to build upon. 
I may tell you that Ann is quite prepared to sacrifice a 
23 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

niece of hers for the benefit of herself and of the village 
in general. Do you think you will be public-spirited 
enough to accept the girl’s services, and make the poor 
people happy ? ” 

Burrough laughed, and ventured to glance at the dis- 
tracting profile of this plain-spoken young lady. Really, 
it was quite easy to chat with her. With the shop-girl 
there had been innumerable difficulties. Her conversa- 
tion had consisted chiefly of monosyllables, with such 
phrases as, Go on,” “Well, I never,” and “That’s all 
right.” The shop-girl and the doddering old Vicar 
would have suited each other admirably. Burrough 
could not resist the conclusion that Beatrice and he were 
equally well matched. 

“ I have a bone to pick with you,” he said in a 
deferential manner. 

“ With me ! Why, before this morning you had 
never ” She stopped, as if mindful of the infor- 

mality of their introduction, then rattled on merrily, 
“ What sort of a bone ? ” 

“ People who go painting should not spoil the beauties 
of Nature by dropping waste-paper,” Burrough went on. 

“ They should not,” Beatrice agreed. “ But they do. 
It’s beastly of them.” 

“ Pieces of paper smeared with paint,” said Burrough. 

“ Torn into pieces, and scattered all over the place,” 
she added tragically. 

“ No, rolled into a ball, and dropped beside the river,” 
he concluded. 

“ Oh, my dear little life ! It’s the ghost ! The very 
pisky itself! To be regardless of grammar, it’s him! ’ 
laughed Beatrice. 


24 


How Burrough walked with Beatrice. 

Burrough sought to learn why she made merry at his 
expense. Thereupon the young lady drew herself up, 
glanced at him wickedly, and imitating his voice and 
manner, said like a saucy parrot : 

“ People who go smoking should not absolutely ruin 
the beauties of Nature by dropping matches and 
cigarette-ends about.” 

“ They were not conspicuous,” Burrough urged 
somewhat lamely. 

“ Cigarette-ends stained with tobacco juice, and half- 
burnt wax-matches,” she went on ruthlessly. 

“ I thought they were hidden by the bracken,” he 
pleaded. 

“They are scattered all over the grass beside the 
river,” she said. 

“ I am guilty,” he confessed. 

“ I could not think who the man was who had dis- 
covered my hiding-place,” Beatrice rattled on. “ I dis- 
covered it during my childhood, in those happy days 
when I would rush about the moor with nothing on but a 
rag of a frock, a jersey, and pair of sandals. I wish I 
might do it now ! I thought nobody knew of that place 
except myself, until I saw the cigarette-ends. I sighed, 
and said, ‘ lejeuestfait' How did you know I was the 
trespasser? ” 

“By the piece of paper,” Burrough answered 
foolishly. 

“ I haven’t the slightest remembrance of writing my 
name upon it,” she said. 

“ You left the marks of your paint-brushes, red marks 
and blue marks,” he rambled on. 

“ You looked at them, and you said, said you, ‘ Sure, 

25 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

and ’tis Beatrice Pentreath entirely ! ’ That was cleverer 
than telling fortunes by coffee-grounds.” 

Driven to desperation Burrough divulged a portion of 
the truth. He would not own how he had measured the 
footprint. 

“ I saw your footprints at the edge of the bog — ninety- 
nines,” she murmured. “ You ought to have taken an 
impress, and gone to a cobbler, and got him to make 
you a slipper. Then you should have collected all the 
girls in the neighbourhood, and tried the slipper on each 
one until you found Cinderella. I shouldn’t have let 
you try it on me, for I think I have got a big hole in my 
stocking. I can’t understand how you recognised me by 
my footprint. It’s the same as any other girl’s.” 

“ Isn’t it smaller ? ” he suggested. 

“ Do you think so ? There ! ” she exclaimed, putting 
out a tiny shoe, and twisting the foot about. “ It’s not 
very large, is it ? ” 

Burrough felt something ringing in his ears. An 
almost irresistible longing swept over him, urging him to 
kneel and press his lips upon that thinly-covered ankle. 
It was curious, because the shop-girl of his London days 
had not affected him in the least. He had been 
perfectly cool and level-headed in her presence. 

“ No, it’s not large,” Beatrice said, answering her own 
question with perfect truth and innocence. “ I shall 
have to cover my tracks in future, or else wherever you 
go you will see them, and say, * There’s that girl of the 
paint-pot.’ ” 

“ What do you paint ? ” Burrough asked, thankful to 
find a question. 

Anything, ” she laughed. “ I painted a most lovely 
26 


How Burrough walked with Beatrice. 

sunset, and when I showed it to my auntie she pointed to 
one of my pink clouds, and said, ^ Oh, my dear, how 
prettily you have painted the heather 1 ^ Then she mis- 
took the setting sun for a lump of granite, and a beam of 
light for the river, so I made the discovery that my sunset 
was after all quite a nice picture of moorland scenery. I 
can never do the right thing. Last year I made a study 
of a sheep’s face — just the face and nothing else — and 
showed it to old Y. That’s the vicar. He was so 
pleased. Before I could explain anything he declared it 
was the best likeness of himself he had ever seen, and 
wanted to know how I had done it without his know- 
ledge. For the future I shall label my works of art. 
Every picture wants labelling. A big painter showed me 
a picture he had just done once, and I made him so 
angry because I said I couldn’t see any stockings. I 
thought it was meant for Christmas Eve, and the father 
was bringing in presents for the kiddies ; and it was 
really the murder of the two young princes in the 
Tower.” 

Beatrice rattled on in this lively strain for some time, 
while her companion listened intently and laughed in a 
subdued fashion. Somehow he could not rid himself of 
the idea that Miss Pentreath, the girl’s Aunt, might not 
approve of this tete-a-tete. In the meantime it had grown 
dark. White moths fluttered here and there, and the 
beetles boomed. 

I thought we were going up on the moor to see the 
afterglow. Here we are in the lane which has no turning 
and goes nowhere,” Beatrice exclaimed. “ And the 
dew is falling. My hair is quite wet.” She passed her 
hand across the brown curls, and caressed them into their 
27 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

proper place. Then she turned to him with a smile. In 
that voluptuous gloom her face was more distracting than 
ever. 

“ You have told me nothing about the little crooked 
house,” she said. 

Burrough winced. Her remark suggested everything 
that was sacred and tender and purely passionate. He 
imagined her there. Already he loved her in his quiet 
self-restrained fashion. Only to have her there, to 
worship, to care for, protect and adore ; to kiss that tiny 
foot ; and aspire at last to those ruby-red lips and that 
maddening little nose. But it was not to be thought of. 
Dainty Beatrice, in her silks and laces, beneath the tin 
roof of his wild moorland cottage home. It would be 
asking the princess to become Cinderella. He caught a 
glimpse of her lace-trimmed petticoat as she walked, and 
he thought of the bog near his cottage, and of the gorse 
and granite beside its door. 

“And they all lived together in a little crooked house,” 
she hummed thoughtlessly. 

“Well,” said she, “you must describe it to me another 
time.” 

“ Are you going to the secret nook to-morrow ? ” he 
asked eagerly. 

“ Perhaps,” she said. “ To paddle.” 

“ Then I must not be there.” 

“ I might postpone the paddling,” she went on. “ Let 
me see. To-morrow: In the morning I shall take Auntie 
for a toddle, if she’s good. In the afternoon I shall put 
her into a chair, and give her a sermon to read, and a 
heap of stockings to mend. Then ‘ Ho and away for the 
riverside ! ’ ” 


28 


How Burrough walked with Beatrice. 

If I brought a kettle ...” began Burrough timidly. 

“ I might provide a basket of buttered splits,” the girl 
said delightedly. 

Never had the cottage on the moor appeared so dreary 
to its owner as it was that summer’s night. He went 
in, lit his lamp, and sat for some time motionless, with 
his hands upon his knees, while the big moths passed 
through the open window to bombard the lamp-shade. 
Presently he felt something against his legs, and looking 
down he beheld Peter with a rat in his mouth. It was 
a gift for the master, and the cat put it down upon the 
carpet and purred in noisy triumph. 

“ What have you done, King o’ the Cats ? ” said 
Burrough sorrowfully. “Wilfully and with malice doing 
murder on this peaceful night, and presenting your 
ghastly victim at my feet. Shame on you. Lord of 
Darkness! This rat may have been a king’s daughter, 
a brown-haired princess, metamorphosed by some vile 
magician. What, my green-eyed monster, did you 
imagine I should come home weary and hungry, and did 
you decide therefore to serve me up savoury meat ? Eat 
it yourself, my Pete, for I have no appetite. And, tell 
me truly, do you not think Beatrice is the sweetest and 
most adorable name between the lowest earth and the 
highest heaven ? ” 


29 


CHAPTER IV. 


HOW BURROUGH VISITED BEDLAM. 

Like everybody else Burrough was affected by the 
weather, but unlike most he appreciated wind and rain. 
When in London he revelled in a fog. Upon Dartmoor 
he felt himself exhilarated by a thick mountain mist. 
Sunshine he delighted in, of course, but the enjoyment 
was usually alloyed with sadness, because on those bright 
days, when Nature was at her best, he felt outside all the 
happiness. He knew that he ought to be having what 
is called a good time. He had neither means nor 
opportunities so to do. When it rained, or there was a 
close pall of mist over the high moor, he had the idea that 
he was as happy as most people. 

It was a glorious morning, and as a consequence 
Burrough was somewhat low-spirited. He was almost 
sorry Beatrice had come into his life. His love was only 
a dream, which would pass away and never come again. 
He would be left tc '^is loneliness with the memory of 
her. She would go ; and he be left. The winter would 
return. 

He prepared his breakfast, swept out the sitting-room, 
tidied the kitchen while he smoKed a pipe, then looked 
out over the moor. A few rough ponies were the only 
living creatures in sight. Peter finished his milk, and 

30 


How Burrough visited Bedlam. 

emerged, licking his lips like a toper leaving an alehouse. 
He said plainly enough that he didn’t know what his 
master intended doing that morning ; but so far as he 
was concerned there was a comfortable shelf of granite a 
little higher up on the moor where he contemplated 
basking all day. He shook his paw and marched off, 
treading gingerly because of the gorse-prickles. 

“Leave the lizards alone, Pete,” his master called. 

The cat looked round, and appeared to wink. “ You 
mind your own business,” he seemed to say. “ Sit down 
and work, will ye, and keep a warm roof over us. As for 
the lizards, it’s no use catching them, because you never 
will eat them.” 

“You can bring me a young rabbit, son of Anak,” 
shouted Burrough. 

Peter swished his tail, which was his way of terminating 
an interview, and continued his delicate career towards 
the warm rocks. 

Burrough went into his study, forced himself into a 
chair, seized a pen, and addressed himself thus: “Now, 
my friend, you shall sit here until noon, whether you are 
idle or industrious. Therefore I should advise you to be 
industrious.” 

Palaeolithic Remains! An admirable subject on a 
sensuous summer’s morning for a man in love. He had 
reached the chapter entitled Hut Circles. For some 
minutes he remained engrossed, presumably upon his 
opening sentence, then he said gently, “ I wonder why 
she uses those bright hairpins.” 

He applied himself seriously to that problem. Had he 
brought the same amount of intelligence to bear upon 
the subject of Hut Circles he might possibly have evolved 

31 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

a new theory. Precisely this idea occurred, and he 
struggled to turn his thoughts into the palaeolithic channel. 
He was so far successful that he soon found himself con- 
sidering that the stone, which stood at the edge of the 
river in the secret nook and which he believed was a 
tolmen, would do very nicely for boiling the kettle on 
that afternoon. 

‘‘ Perhaps she won’t come,” he muttered dolefully. 

The distracting vision of Beatrice remained in the fore- 
ground, although Burrough firmly persuaded himself he 
was working. That work, could he have presented it to 
an honest critic, would have received the kind of verdict 
which Miss Pentreath had passed upon her niece’s 
picture of the setting sun. “ Stone remains ! Hut 
Circles ! Why, my dear fellow, there is nothing here 
but a girl.” 

“ This won’t do,” Burrough cried, bringing his hand 
down upon the table. In the words of Samuel Johnson, 
this won’t do at all. I have done nothing for the last 
three days. Idleness and infatuation will lure me into 
the mad-house, or the poor-house, or the charnel-house, 
or some other horrible kind of house. I must practise 
concentration. I will not allow my mind to wander. I 
will not let her face come between me and my work again. 
Now where was I.? . . . . ‘This stone was probably 
used by the occupant of the hut to stand upon during his 
morning devotions to the sun, and ... it was here ’ ” 
. . . But the association of feet with stones suggested 
nothing that was neolithic. He saw tiny tan shoes, 
brown silk stockings, and lace-trimmed petticoat ; and it 
was Beatrice who stood upon the stone, not a hairy and 
uninteresting prehistoric man. 

32 


How Burrough visited Bedlam. 

So he began to wonder what she was doing just then. 
Probably escorting her maiden Aunt from one fixed point 
to another. He felt he was wasting his time, as indeed 
he was ; but what he meant was that he might have been 
out watching her from a respectful distance, instead of 
sitting in that chair thinking of her. He wondered how 
she was dressed. Was there any analogy between the 
foam of the sea, out of which Venus rose at her birth, 
and the foam of underclothing worn by twentieth-century 
maidens ? What was the use of the Church denouncing 
a general laxity in the moral tone, while the law per- 
mitted girls to walk abroad clad as it were in foam o’ the 
sea, and had nothing to say against pictorial advertise- 
ments of the same sea foam appearing week by week in 
fashion papers ? He wondered whether Turkish breeches 
and yashmak would depress the matrimonial mart. But 
what had these matters of life, love, and passion to do 
with cold, grey, lichen-covered granite ? 

It was no use. Burrough felt that his brain was on 
fire. He was raving mad. He had been bitten by the 
tarantula. He might write a love-story, but not a sermon 
upon stones. The eyes of Beatrice had done his business. 
For life or for death he was hers. 

Decidedly she was no prim maid; no Jane-Austen 
virgin, prone to excessive bouts of weeping or fainting- 
fits. Did she, he wondered, incline just a little towards the 
opposite scale ? Was she, in short, a flirt ? Was she a 
mere incendiary, who would kindle a fire, and then run 
away, not daring to look at the consequences ? She had 
been free and easy with him, but then he had almost 
forced himself upon her in the first instance. Besides, 
she had known who he was. She knew him to be a 

p.p. 33 D 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

gentleman. The affair with Mr. Yeoland was nothing. 
Most of the girls allowed that amorous old personage a 
certain amount of licence. He remembered Beatrice 
would not even permit the dotard to pull her hair. Why 
shouldn’t she be free and friendly with himself ? Burrough 
pulled himself upright, and regarded his face in the glass 
of the over-mantel. He was not a bad-looking fellow, 
and he was in the prime of life. 

All this had nothing to do with stone-remains ; but the 
young man was just then past praying for. 

What passionate pilgrim will confess honestly to every 
foolish action before his sacred fire has been quenched 
by marriage ? Probably the country bumpkin is the only 
really sensible lover. He has a good resounding kiss, 
and goes back to his plough, and thinks no more of Polly 
until he sees her again. Burrough was a scholar, and 
therefore a fool in love. The greater a man’s knowledge 
the fiercer his passion. A young woman with her first 
baby is bad enough ; but a scholar with his sweetheart 
is worse. How many would confess to the initials they 
had carved on beech-trees .? To the nonsense they had 
scrawled upon the sands.? To the doggerel they had 
penned, or the mad phrases they had mouthed .? Every 
wise man is a Bedlamite for a few hours of his life. 

Burrough took up his pen, and began to scratch on the 
sheet, which by that time of day should have been 
covered with hieroglyphics concerning the stone age. 
He wrote the one word “ Beatrice.” This was not only 
foolish but unnecessary, as he was in no danger of 
forgetting it. Besides, it rendered the paper unfit for 
literary purposes. He added the monosyllable “John.” 
Th<»r he enclosed the two words within a bracket, and 
34 


How Burrough visited Bedlam. 

made noises of gratification like a baby nuzzling its 
bottle. 

Burrough had often seen a servant-girl and her swain 
embracing upon a bench, and engaged with each other’s 
lips like bees on clover. He had questioned the pro- 
priety of these aphrodisiac courtships ; yet he had admitted 
there was something pretty and poetic about such a couple, 
wandering down a lane clasped together. It suggested 
the indissoluble bond of love as nothing else could suggest 
it. Merely the desire to be together ; with nothing to talk 
about ; but to step together, think together, cling together. 
The man who buys love ready-made would have no 
sympathy with that poetry of motion, where hands and 
waists are clasped, and the feet move in harmony with 
the heart-beats. It must have been very early in time 
that some cave-dweller — and this distinctly referred to 
Burrough’s work on stone-remains — discovered that it 
was a sweet and pleasant thing to have his arm around 
the probably undraped waist of some other cave-dweller’s 
daughter. No doubt it was a great deal later when some 
fair damsel — it would have been a feminine discovery — 
found a fearful joy in bestowing shy and tender bites 
upon the loved one. Naturally he would have been 
impelled by gallantry to return the salutation, and so 
love-bites came into fashion ; until the time arrived when 
some warrior, who had lost his teeth in a brawl, was com- 
pelled to use his lips, thus inaugurating a new fashion in 
the best hut-circle society. Finally some tender creature 
of the bon ton conceived the idea of thus biting the lips 
which had bitten her, and in this manner created the kiss 
of modern society. There was something delightfully 
sweet and tender, Burrough thought, about primitive 

35 D 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

courtship. What could be more tender — and more 
idiotic — than a dove billing and cooing to its mate ? It 
was delightful just because it was idiotic. There was 
something enthralling about the illiterate cooing of lovers, 
about the nonsense-verses, the baby-talk, the mispro- 
nounced and misspelt words — the first fruits of the 
intoxicating madness of pubescence. 

The scholar ceased his thinking, and proceeded to 
action. In a bold round hand he wrote upon the paper, 

“ My dere letele angel.” 

This was pretty good for a man who had taken 
honours. Had he been a clodhopper he would have 
scratched his head and aspired to the grandiose. Being 
a scholar he found it a delight to coo the part of the 
idiotic dove. 

The door was wide open. In stalked Peter, bearing a 
ridiculous rabbit, not so large as the rat he had captured 
the previous night. He went through his usual perform- 
ance of presenting the offering and purring his own 
triumph ; while Burrough blushed, actually blushed, to 
be caught at such egregious folly by his cat, and to dis- 
cover that the animal had made better use of the 
morning than he had. He caught up the sheet, tore it 
into fragments, and tried to be sane again. 

“ Another small soul despatched into limbo,” he said 
lightly, bending to stroke the cat. “ What a rapacious 
beast you are! You bring lizards and rats to grace my 
table, and when I refuse to have my palate thus tickled, 
and charge you to bring me instead young rabbits, you 
proceed to tear an innocent babe from its mother’s 
breast. In a few short hours, my Herod, you have made 
some poor rat a widow, broken up a previously happy 

36 


How Burrough visited Bedlam. 

lizard home, and left some poor Rachel of a rabbit 
weeping for her children.” 

Peter went forth, with his tail at the perpendicular, 
and his mind set upon more slaughter. 

It was noon at last. Still too early to cook the mid- 
day chop ; and much too early to get ready the kettle, 
the packet of tea, and flask of milk. What was Beatrice 
doing? What a fool he had been to fret away the 
morning when he might have gone out, seen her, perhaps 
spoken, touched her hand, felt her eyes, and above all, 
been thrilled by the momentary flicker of her frock 
against his legs ! 

“ I must read,” he cried, springing towards his books. 
“ Read hard for an hour, since I cannot work. The 
solitude is getting on my brain.” 

He chose the Andromache of Euripides. It was no 
use reading English while in that mood. It was neces- 
sary to have something which would compel him to 
concentrate his thoughts ; and he chose the Andromache 
because it was the tragedy of that particular dramatist 
with which he was least familiar. For a time he read with 
resolution. He had banished Beatrice more or less into 
the background. It was not for long. The Greek poet 
had a message for him. The voice from the remote past 
was soon ringing into his ears the two tremendous 
lines : — 

“ If he be passionate, he shall meet with passion, 

And receive deeds for deeds.” 


37 


CHAPTER V. 


HOW BEATRICE CULTIVATED LOCAL TALENT. 

When Beatrice came out to offer her morning devo- 
tions to the sun the first sight which greeted her eyes 
was Ann Cobbledick, her landlady. The good soul was 
seated upon a stool, milking her cow in the centre of the 
road. There was not much traffic through the moorland 
village ; but what there was had to make room for Ann 
and her cow. Her geese waddled and cackled around 
her, and her son Willum leaned against the wall of the 
linhay, blinking complacently and catlike. 

“ ’Tis a fine marning this marning,” greeted the 
widow. 

“ Why do you always milk your cow in the middle of 
the road ? ” Beatrice asked. 

“ Mother milked 'en here, so did her mother, so did 
hers, and I be going to long as I lives. They laugh at 
I,” Ann went on, referring indirectly to the villagers. 
“Let ’en laugh. They can’t make butter same as me. 
I wouldn’t grease my boots wi’ the butter they makes. 
Bide still wi’ that tail. Artful, will ye ? Them flies be 
that worriting,” she muttered. 

“You should let Willum do the milking,” said 
Beatrice. 

“ Willum ! ” cried the fond mother. “ Willum mun’t 
du nothing. Willum be dying o’ decline.” 

38 


How Beatrice cultivated Local Talent. 


Willum shuffled his feet into the dust, and muttered a 
hoarse acknowledgment of this fiction. 

“ Poor Willum ! ” said Beatrice sweetly. 

“ Willum wun’t die whiles he has his old mother to 
look arter he,” Ann went on. “I makes 'en eat and 
drink plenty. I wun’t let 'en work. Work would kill 
Willum. He be a scholar. There b’ain’t many as 
knows what Willum du. Willum says ’isself work would 
kill ’en.” 

“ I’m sure it would,” said Beatrice. 

“ Willum walks about the village all day,” continued 
Ann, warming to her subject. “ He takes it easy, and 
that be good for ’en. And he smokes a lot. Smoking 
does Willum good. And he drinks a lot o’ beer. Beer 
be fattening, Willum says, and he knows ’cause he be 
a scholar. Willum would like to work, he says, but 
knows he mun’t. Make ’en decline faster, he says.” 

“ I shoots rabbuts,” muttered Willum, in self-defence. 

“He shoots rabbuts,” echoed the proud mother. 
“ Hear ’en ? Shoots a lot, Willum du. That be good 
for ’en, and he trains dogs, and he brings the goosies 
home.” 

“ He mustn’t do too much,” said ironical Beatrice. 

“ That’s what I tell ’en,” cried Ann. “ Mun’t du too 
much and strain yeself, Willum, I says. They boys be 
that daring ! Willum thinks nothing o’ walking five 
mile wi’ his gun. Makes I worrit often, he du.” 

“ How will he manage when he hasn’t got you to look 
after him ? ” asked Beatrice. 

“ I’ll be finding a maiden for ’en soon,” said Ann. 
“ A lusty maiden, what can work, and keep Willum same 
as I du.” 


39 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Willum smiled complacently. Mrs. Cobbledick’s 
plans for his future received his entire approval. 

“ That will be nice for him,” Beatrice murmured. 
“But she might want him to work.” 

“ She wun’t,” declared Ann. “ Willum have promised 
me he wun’t work as long as it pleases God to spare ’en. 
Ain’t ye, Willum ? ” 

“ Iss,” said her son, in no uncertain fashion. “ I 
wun’t work.” 

“ Hear ’en ? ” said the widow again. “ Alius does 
what I tell ’en. Ain’t many sons like my old dear. And 
he be a scholar too.” 

Exactly what Willum’s attainments were nobody knew 
except the fond mother. Somebody had given 
him a decrepit violin, and he would scrape upon it 
with terrifying results. Somebody else had given him 
an old camera, with which he pretended to operate, 
although without visible results. His library consisted 
of two books, a “ Crockford’s Clerical Directory,” ten 
years out of date, and a “ Guide to Devon.” Over these 
volumes he would pore during winter evenings, watched 
in silent admiration by his mother who could neither 
read nor write. At such moments Willum was studying, 
and was not to be disturbed by trivial matters. When- 
ever a clergyman came to the village, Willum would dive 
into his Crockford and enlighten his fellow-villagers as 
to the cleric’s “pedigree,” as he called it. From the 
guide-book he would cull much information regarding 
his native moor for the benefit of visitors. He would 
inform them for instance, “ The church be Perp,” 
and evade further questioning by simply repeating the 
statement. When some enlightened visitor enquired 
40 


How Beatrice cultivated Local Talent. 


whether he meant perpendicular, he would reply in the 
negative, and repeat his assertion that the church was 
perp., the word being thus abbreviated in his guide-book. 

Anything more ludicrous than Ann Cobbledick’s belief 
that her son was dying of consumption could hardly be 
imagined. A stronger-lunged creature than Willum 
did not exist. Since a good many people came to the 
little mountain village to undergo the open-air treatment, 
it had become the fashion among the villagers to pretend 
they were similarly affected; just in the same way as 
certain people of lowly birth in times past would try to 
persuade themselves they had contracted the aristocratic 
gout. Mrs. Cobbledick’s logic was curious. She saw 
the patients roaming about the moor. They were un- 
mistakably gentlemen. Willum was, in her estimation, 
a complete gentleman. Therefore he too must be in a 
decline. Willum hastened to agree ; and nobly submitted 
to a life of laziness and vice to please his mother and 
gratify himself. 

Willum spent most of his time leaning up against 
something. So long as he had a support for his back he 
was happy. When he saw a wall he would make for it 
instinctively, and set his back against it. He was a 
human buttress. While Beatrice talked to his mother he 
looked at her with the eyes of a brute, thinking no doubt 
what a dainty morsel she was. 

** Have you got your tombstone yet ? ” Beatrice asked 
the widow, with mischief in her eyes. 

“ I ain’t got ’en,” Ann replied, with a sign of anger. 
“ It be up to Eastaway’s, and he can’t sell ’en cause my 
name's on’t. It be a gurt stoane, and a good 'un. If 
Willum could work I’d get he to go up there one night 

41 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

when 'twas dark and fetch ’en away. There be room for 
'en in the linny. But Eastaway be that left-handed he’d 
call it stealing. I be a widow, and Willum be an orphan, 
so they be agin we. They be agin I cause o’ my butter,” 
she went on shrilly. “ They knows theirs ain’t fit for 
waggon-grease. They knows the secret o’ butter-making 
will die wi’ me. And they hates Willum ’cause he be 
book-learned. Ain’t ye a scholar, old dear?” 

“ I be intellectual,” Willum admitted. 

“ Hear ’en ” said Ann. “ There bain’t many like 
Willum. Gets things out o’ books, Willum du. Every- 
one knows Willum. They comes here to shake hands 
wi’ ’en.” 

The tombstone, to which Beatrice had referred, was 
Ann’s special grievance. Some time after her husband’s 
death it had been pointed out to the widow that she 
might show suitable respect to his memory by erecting a 
stone above his resting-place. She had discussed the 
matter with Willum, and had arrived at the conclusion 
that a stone would cost money. Further she did not see 
why her husband should have a stone all to himself. 
She went to Eastaway, the granite-merchant, and opened 
her mind to him. He suggested that a small portion of 
the proposed tombstone should be occupied by the name 
of the late Cobbledick, while the greater part should 
receive inscriptions relative to the virtues of Ann ; and 
that the stone should not be erected until her bones were 
mingled with those of her husband. This proposal was 
eminently satisfactory. One Sunday evening Ann went 
with Eastaway upon the moor, and after much rambling 
among bracken, heather, and whortleberries a slab of 
granite was perceived which met with the widow’s 
42 


How Beatrice cultivated Local Talent. 


approbation. Eastaway marked it, and the next day sent 
a waggon and a couple of stone-crackers to secure it. 

So far things had gone nicely, but so soon as the 
granite had been hewn into orthodox shape troubles 
began. It was over the wording of the inscription that 
the quarrel arose. “ Under this stone lies the body of 
William Cobbledick,” was a sufficient opening; but a 
difficulty occurred over the spelling. Eastaway declared 
stone should be spelt stune. Willum, whose opinion 
on such matters was usually final, amended it to stoane. 
While the man who had hewn it took his oath the word 
should be spelt starne. A search in the churchyard 
brought no enlightenment, as all the memorials there 
commenced with the words “ Sacred to the memory of.’' 
Willum appealed to his guide-book, and finally announced 
that, although stoane was undoubtedly the usual form, 
there was sufficient authority to justify the use of the 
older and practically obsolete rendering, stone. He 
recommended its adoption in this instance as being 
shorter and thus cheaper. 

The next stumbling-block was the word William. 
Eastaway was for spelling it in the orthodox form, but 
when this was explained to Ann her wrath was great. 

“ He warn’t Willyam,” she cried at the stone-merchant. 
“ He wur Willum. He wur born Willum, and he died 
Willum, and he be Willum in heaven. His father’s name 
wur Willum, and my son be Willum, and his son ’ll be 
Willum. If I’d called my man Willyam he wouldn’t 
have answered.” 

Willum the scholar corroborated, and Eastaway had to 
give way. 

The worthy Cobbledick having been curtly dismissed, 

43 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

the monosyllable Ann was cut large and deep upon the 
stone, for the admiration of posterity in general and the 
living lady in particular. At this point Eastaway was 
given an idea by meeting a brother stone-merchant who 
made a speciality of head-stones. This man suggested 
that the line following should run, “ Relict of the 
above.” Eastaway communicated the idea to the party 
interested ; and Mrs. Cobbledick went at once in search 
of Willum. 

“ I be a relic o’ father, old dear,” she announced. 

So be I,” said Willum, seeing that he was expected 
to say something, and speaking more truly than he was 
aware of. 

“ What du it mean ? ” asked the widow. 

The scholar looked profound. He was leaning as 
usual against a wall, smoking industriously. 

“ I’ll tell ye presently. It wants thinking over,” he 
said. 

The widow went to milk her cow, and Willum saun- 
tered to the Vicarage. He interviewed old Y.” with 
satisfactory results, and in due course returned to his 
angle in the wall. 

“It be a thing kept in a box,” he began vaguely, when 
his mother reminded him of his promise. 

“ What sort of thing ? ” Ann demanded. 

“ Something holy kept in a box, and worshipped by 
folk what believe in idols,” Willum went on, struggling 
to recall detached fragments of the Vicar’s halting 
phrases. “ Kept in a golden box sometimes, and they 
call it a bit of an apostle,” he said eloquently. “ They 
don’t know really if it be or bain’t, but they worships 
it all the same. They kneels down and worships it.” 

44 


How Beatrice cultivated Local Talent. 


A little more conversation convinced mother and son 
that Eastaway had been trying to make game of them ; 
so they went off and told him what they thought of his 
conduct. It was useless for the poor man to protest his 
innocence. Ann declared he was “ agin her ’cause o’ the 
butter,” and stated that the village would never have been 
discovered by visitors had it not been for the intellectual 
attainments of her son. 

After this a deadlock was reached. Eastaway flatly 
declined to record Ann’s fame as a butter-maker upon 
the stone, and the widow in return refused to pay for 
work done. As a matter of fact it had never been her 
intention to pay for it. She argued it was absurd to pay 
for anything which could be of no use to her during her 
lifetime. She thought it quite probable that Willum 
would be too poor to pay for it after her decease ; but, 
seeing that it had been spoilt for any other purpose, she 
reckoned upon Eastaway making her a present of it when 
she was upon her deathbed. 

The tombstone controversy was then in its fourth year. 
The granite-merchant would not part with it, and Ann 
resolutely refused to pay for it. Had it been possible to 
purloin the slab Ann would have done so long ago. As 
matters were she was content to say, “ Let ’en bide.” 

“I want my breakfast,” cried Beatrice. “I feel 
perfectly hollow. What’s the time, Mrs. Cobbledick ? ” 

“ Willum knows,” said the widow, who was quite unable 
to read clock or watch for herself. 

Before the scholar could collect his wits sufficiently to 
answer, the postman rode up with the letters. There 
were none for Beatrice. She received those for her aunt, 
and ran indoors with them. 


45 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ Willum,” said the widow, directly the girl had dis- 
appeared. She wur with Mr. Burrough last night.” 

I knows. I saw ’en,” said the scholar. 

“ They wur walking in the lane, and 'twas dark,” the 
old gossip went on. “ And she hadn^t got no hat on.” 

This partial nudity on Beatrice’s part caused them to 
shake their heads violently. 

“ She came back alone,” Ann went on. “ She wur 
out o’ breath and hurrying. Why didn’t he come back 
wi’ her, if all was honest ? Did ye hear anything, old 
dear ? ” 

“ I heard ’en laugh,” said the scholar gloomily. 

“ Did ye hear any kissing ? ” Ann whispered. “ But 
there ! Ye be such an old innocent ye wouldn’t know if 
ye did hear any.” 

“ I wouldn’t say what I heard,” said Willum darkly. 

That was what Ann wanted. The scandal w^ts estab- 
lished. Burrough had stumbled at last, and the widow 
felt she would be perfectly justified in assuring the 
villagers that Beatrice had passed the evening alone with 
him in his cottage. She decided there would be just 
time to run down, and tell the post-mistress, before 
getting the breakfast ready. 


46 


CHAPTER VI. 


HOW THEY BOILED A KETTLE IN THE DEVIL’s KITCHEN. 

Burrough reached the secret nook early. He pro- 
ceeded in his methodical manner to make the place tidy, 
just as he would have tidied a room. He hid the sheep’s 
carcase beneath the bracken ; he dusted the granite arm- 
chair ; he cleared away the cigarette-ends and half-burnt 
matches. Then he made a little causeway of stones 
along the edge of the bog. This was for Beatrice to walk 
upon. He could not bear the idea of those little shoes 
being made muddy. 

His next move was to the kitchen, a heap of rocks 
which no doubt had been once upon a time the abode of 
some Dartmoor freeholder. The original hearth had 
disappeared ; but four stones made an excellent substitute. 
In the space thus enclosed Burrough placed some dry 
gorse, a few sticks, and some scraps of peat. His spirits 
rose as he worked. There was a wild charm in this 
outdoor life. He began to whistle ; and finally burst 
into song — 

*' O, she is dead and gone ! 

She’s dead and gone ! 

And at her head a green grass turf, 

And at her heels a stone.” 

This was a pill to purge melancholy ; for there is a joy 
in feigning sadness when one is happy. Burrough fiung 
47 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

another piece of peat on the hearthstone, and went on 
singing— 

“ And will she ne’er come again ? 

Will she ne’er come again ? 

Ah, no, she’s dead, and laid in her grave, 

For ever to remain.” 

“ Not she,” laughed a voice. 

Burrough started from his knees. There was Beatrice 
on the top of an ivy-clad boulder, with a little basket 
upon her arm. 

“ Here’s the stone at my heels,” she cried, dancing 
lightly upon it. “ But I’m still uppermost.” 

“ How did you come ” asked Burrough. 

On these,” said Beatrice, drawing back her short 
skirts and showing him the tiniest feet in the west 
country. 

“ But how did you cross the bog ? I never saw you 
— never heard you. Have you dropped out of heaven? ” 

“ Out of the sun, I do assure you,” she laughed. 
“ Why, 1 came my usual way, and whistling all the time ; 
but you were so busy chanting dirges you did not hear.” 

“ Your shoes are quite clean.” 

“ So are my hands. Look.” 

“ But there’s no way here except through the bog.” 

“ There is. Come and see. First of all put my basket 
in the larder.” 

Beatrice jumped down and led the way beside the 
river. At the bend she dived into a hole among the rocks, 
and pointed out to Burrough a strip of firm ground, 
which, she declared, wound away among the furze- 
bushes to a line of rocks, by means of which the bog 
could be circumvented dry-shod. 

48 


How They boiled a Kettle. 

“ It’s a roundabout way, and nobody knows it except 
me,” she said. “ I found it out when I was about two feet 
high. I came here with my sister — she’s in heaven now, 
poor dear ! — and we were looking for the osmunda. We 
found thickets. I think there were more then than there 
are now. We used to dig up the little ones, but the roots 
of the big ones go down to New Zealand. We used to 
take them home and sell them to friends at one shilling 
each, and have a spree with the money. We were only 
kids, you know. How did you get to know of the 
place ? ” 

“ I found it by chance,” Burrough said. “ I waded up 
the river one afternoon, trying to get a maidenhair fern 
which I saw growing in a cleft. When I landed I found 
myself here.” 

“ How did you escape ? ” 

“ I crossed the rocks and found some stones at the 
narrowest part of the bog. Beyond are some tus- 
socks, which are firm, though they don’t look it. The 
rest of the bog will bear my weight to the foot of the 
hill.” 

“ That’s a dirty way,” cried Beatrice. “ Never mind ; 
show it me. I’ve shown you mine. We must name 
these crossings,” she rattled on, as they worked their way 
to the other end of the secret nook. “ I shall call mine 
— what ? ” 

“ Queensway,” Burrough suggested, flushing a little. 

And yours Kingsway ? Too high-flown. Let’s have 
something ridiculous. Go on ; you’ve got brains.” 

Burrough’s brains were fully occupied just then. They 
were entangled in the web of Beatrice’s dark-brown hair. 
Humbly he prayed her to be sponsor of their kingdom by 
49 E 


p.p. 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

the river. Immediately she was filled with suggestions 
and strange words. 

Then I shall call my path the Apron String,” she 
said. “ It’s not my own invention, as there’s a neck of 
stones near Kynance Cove called that. The path is like 
a string, and it connects this corner with the apron, 
which is the firm ground beyond the bog. And your 
path — but where is it ? ” 

“ There,” said Burrough, pointing to a couple of partly 
submerged stones at the edge of the vivid-green bog. 
“Those are the grass tussocks, and that bed of scarlet 
moss will bear, though it quakes horribly.’^ 

“ My shoes and stockings ! ” Beatrice exclaimed ; 
“ what a slushy way I I should have nigger feet after 
going through that.” 

“ It’s not nearly so bad as it looks,” said Burrough, 
encouragingly. 

“ I won’t try it,” said Beatrice, decidedly. “ I won’t 
make casts of my feet in mud-of-Dartmoor. But what 
shall we call this ? It must be some slippery-slushing- 
sliding-soozling sort of name. I know! We’ll call it 
Skelywidden.” 

“ Now for the hut circle, the devil’s kitchen, and tea 1 ” 
said Burrough. 

“ There’s this lovely little place,” she murmured, 
“ known only to you and me. It’s ours — entirely ours.” 

“ Yours by right of discovery,” Burrough reminded her. 

“Yours by annexation,” she said. “The Prince of 
Wales would claim it as Duke of Cornwall if he knew of 
it ; but he shan’t have it, not if he comes with twenty thou- 
sand men. We’d know the reason why 1 I would hold 
the Apron String, and you would stand at bay upon 

50 


How They boiled a Kettle. 

Skelywidden. We would die for our country, wouldn’t 
we ? ” 

She laughed merrily at her nonsense, and Burrough 
lost his reserve and laughed too. 

“ Well, it must have a name,” Beatrice declared. “ A 
really nice name ; something that would look pretty upon 
a map. It’s your turn to suggest something.” 

“New Paradise,” Burrough suggested, somewhat 
lamely; and, in reply to her wondering glance, added 
boldly, “ the vision of Dante — Beatrice.” 

“Dant^ went to hell,” replied the girl. “Pm not a 
ghostly Beatrice, and I won’t have the place called Para- 
dise, new or old. You can’t talk about Paradise without 
thinking of purgatory and getting shivers. Also, it’s too 
personal. Likewise, as you ought to know. Paradise is 
only used as a name for the very slummiest of slums. 
Now what do you say to Half-and-half Corner? Yours 
and mine, you know.” 

“ Too long,” he objected. “ What do you say to 
Ourland ? ” 

“Nuffin’,” lisped Beatrice, “ except that it would be 
another injustice to poor old Oireland.” 

“ Then I have done,” said Burrough. 

“ I haven’t,” she cried. “ You’re not a bit of good as 
a godfather. There’s a place in my native country called 
Blisland. It was once Blastland, which sounds sweary. 
I think Blisland is rather a pretty name.” 

“ With one ‘ s ’ ? ” he asked. 

“ Only one there,” she said. 

“ We will have two here.” 

“ Now let’s go into the hut circle and be prehistoric 
people,” laughed Beatrice. 

51 


B 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

They scrambled over the rocks, and Beatrice, diving 
into the kitchen, began to arrange the fire, chatting 
frivolously all the time. 

“ Gugh ! it’s clamp and dammy down here, and this is 
a silly little half-bred fireplace. Have you forgotten the 
matches ? My s’ars — if you have ! What did they do 
for matches when they were prehistoric ? Never let the 
fire go out, of course. But what a business ! Fancy 
getting up in the middle of the night ! ‘ My dear, you 

must, or the fire will go out.’ And they couldn’t go 
away for a week-end because of their precious fire. 
Where are the devil’s kettle and pans } Mr. Burrough, 
there’s no water in the devil’s kettle.” 

“ I believe it is my kettle,” said the young man gravely. 

“Not now,” cried Beatrice. “This is the devil’s 
kitchen. People are so fond of the dear old devil. 
They name everything after him. They say God made 
the country, but they make the devil its patron. I expect 
they think it’s just as well to propitiate him. I wish I 
had the devil’s bellows, as this fire won’t burn. Oh, 
Tregony and Tregolls ! ” 

“ Anything the matter ? ” called Burrough, peering 
through the smoke. 

“ I’ve cremated myself,” wailed Beatrice. “ Get an 
urn quick, and put me in. I shall soon be a pinch of 
dust, and you can use me for snuff or plate-powder. 
However did they live here in the days of Adam — he, 
she, baby, and fireplace ? She would not have been 
bothered with frock and frills — lucky girl.” 

Burrough had stooped to enter the hut circle, but 
dared not. He would have been too close to Beatrice, 
and he knew he could not trust himself. If they had bent 

52 


How They boiled a Kettle. 

together over the fire, their hands touching, that mad- 
dening little face close to his — it might become the 
devil’s kitchen indeed.” 

I believe I’m out of danger,” she sang out. But 
half-a-yard of lace has gone to heaven. I hope I didn’t 
startle you. When I swear I always use Cornish names. 
They sound nicer than the usual swear-words, and you 
can make them mean just the same. This is a rotten 
fire-place. I think you had better come and be pre- 
historic instead of me.” 

With that she came forth, sucking a scorched finger in 
a distracting manner, so that Burrough very wisely 
diverted his eyes, and began to collect bits of dry gorse. 
Then he descended to the hearthstone, while Beatrice 
lolled in the granite arm-chair and made frivolous 
remarks. 

“ They will think we are swaling,” she cried cheerily, 
when Burrough’s labours became rewarded by smoke 
and flame. “ We shall be dragged before the Stannary 
Court upon Crockern Tor, for burning the moor in 
summer, and thrown into Lydford dungeon. Why did 
they throw people into prison ? They might just as well 
have put them in gently. This is our own territory, so 
we can do what we like. Are you listening there below ? 
If so, what is your name ? ” 

“John,” replied a nervous voice out of the smoke. 

“ King John ! Then we must have a Magna Charta. 
You must go upon the island and sign it. There is to 
be no tyranny in Blissland. If you try it I will appeal to 
the Pope. By the way, how do you write to the Pope ? 
I should begin, ‘ My dear Pope, I hope you are well. 
How are your gardens looking ? I should love to see 
53 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

them, but I suppose if I come I should have to kneel 
and kiss your big toe, and really I couldn’t do that. 
What an idea ! ’ she rattled on ; ‘ expecting a girl to 
kiss an old man’s big toe.’ Don’t you think we ought to 
build a palace ? I am sure we could do it. Firstly, we 
should dig a hole ; secondly put a stone in, then another 
on top, and another on top of that ; thirdly, make two 
holes, one for door, and another for window ; and to 
conclude put the roof on. It would be quite easy.” 

“ The theory of palace-building is simplicity itself,” 
Burrough agreed. “ The decoration of the interior, and 
the furnishing of the same, present difficulties.” 

“ Which appear insurmountable,” added Beatrice 
precisely. “ Now we are two dictionaries. As for 
decoration we should stick ferns about, and cover the 
floor with bracken. As for furniture that is a needless 
luxury. I could furnish the place quite nicely with a few 
slabs of granite and some bundles of heather.” 

“ Slabs of granite,” repeated Burrough wonderingly. 
“ For beds ? ’’ he asked innocently. 

“ No,” she said crossly. Chairs and tables, of course. 
Then we should have slaves. It’s no use having a king- 
dom if you don’t keep slaves. When anything went 
wrong we should cut their heads off. The kettle is 
spitting ! Quick ! And I haven’t put out the devil’s cups 
and saucers. And where, oh, where, is the devil’s 
teapot ? ” 

Burrough rushed to the kitchen, and brought out the 
kettle, bubbling and seething. 

“We don’t want a teapot,” he explained. “We just 
shovel the tea into the kettle.” 

“ Gugh ! how messy ! ” said Beatrice. “ What a mad 

54 


How They boiled a Kettle. 

tea-party ! I think,” she went on sweetly, one pound 
of tea would be quite enough.” 

“ I have put in rather a lot,” said Burrough. “ I like 
it strong.” 

“It would appear so. I will prescribe for myself, 
thank you. One part essence of tea to twenty parts 
water. Add milk and sugar, and stir thoroughly. The 
mixture to be served hot.” 

“ I have forgotten the sugar,” said Burrough penitently. 
“ I do not take it myself. I am exceedingly sorry.” 

“ I must curse you,” said Beatrice. “ It is very sad, 
but I must. You shall have a nightmare, and be beaten 
with sugar-canes, and suffocated beneath a mountain of 
brown Demerara. Now don’t say sugar is unnecessary 
in my case. I can see you are going to ; but it is very 
necessary. I feel a wild longing to have my system 
impregnated with it. I want to lie down and roll in it.” 

Burrough persuaded her to taste the tea, and see how 
much nicer it was without sugar. She did so, and made 
a wry face ; declared it was like medicine ; that she 
would as soon drink vinegar ; that it set her teeth on 
edge and made her miserable. Then she forgot her 
troubles, and turned out the contents of her basket. 

“ If I were a dishonest person I would say I made this 
saffron cake,” she rattled on. “ Being as clear as the 
noon-day, I will own that Auntie was the architect. 
Auntie is very Cornish. Her pasties are works of art 
and her saffron cakes are symphonies. Her dutiful 
niece does not take after her much. When she tries 
to make saffron cake it’s as likely as not that a Christmas 
plum-pudding is the result.” 

The sun had worked its way round the precipice 

55 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

of bog, and as the girl finished speaking a long ray 
flashed into Blissland and made a glory of her dark- 
brown head. 

“ How long are you staying here ? ” Burrough asked 
suddenly. 

‘‘ Until I have eaten some more bread-and-butter, 
two pixy cakes, and smoked one cigarette,” said she. 

“ I mean in the village — in Lew,” he went on, with 
an earnestness he could not conceal. 

“Ages I expect. Until the bracken turns golden. 
We shall go with the swallows. When you see Auntie 
and me on the wall beside Mrs. Cobbledick’s, twit- 
tering and arranging our feathers, you will know we 
are about to fly away. Don’t you find it dreary here 
in the winter?” 

“ It is,” he said, with more emphasis than he intended. 

“Mud and mist?” she suggested. 

“Silence and desolation,” he continued. 

“ Why do you . . . ? ” she asked, with a slight hesi- 
tation, regarding him for the first time with some 
seriousness. 

“ Because I must,” he answered, looking down. “ I 
cannot keep in good health anywhere else.” 

“Nevermind,” said Beatrice sweetly. “If you live 
here a little longer you will get strong enough to live 
anywhere. The villagers here would live as long as 
they liked if they didn’t drink so. How do you pass 
the evenings in winter ? ” 

“ Thinking, smoking, dreaming,” he answered with a 
smile. 

“ Always alone ? ” 

“ With Peter, my cat.” 


5 ^ 


How They boiled a Kettle. 

“ And you talk to Peter ? ” 

“ I tell him everything.” 

Beatrice hummed softly. Then she settled herself 
snugly in the granite chair, and begged a cigarette. When 
it was lighted, she said, in child-like tones, “ Please tell 
me a story.” 

Burrough hesitated. He felt he was approaching 
dangerous ground. 

“ Go on,” she said impatiently. “ A fairy-story.” 

“ You know them all,” he said. “ You are a Cornish 
girl.” 

“ Tell me something new, pretty, and a wee bit senti- 
mental, while I’m serious,” she commanded. 

Thus adjured Burrough commenced — 

“ Once upon a time there was a princess, who was so 
beautiful that it was considered there was no man in the 
world worthy to be her husband ” 

“ Did she think so herself ? ” 

“ I do not know,” he answered. “ She was a Cornish 
princess, and therefore she could not help being beautiful.” 

“Skip all that, and come to her best boy,” said Beatrice, 
with signs of returning frivolity. 

“ She had three lovers, all kings, of course,” Burrough 
went on. “ There was the king of Biggletubben, who 
was very rich; the king of Amalebria, who was very learned ; 
and the king of Trevalyor, who was neither rich nor 
powerful, and his kingdom was very small and very poor.” 

“ So she told him to run away home, and promised to 
send hihi a picture post-card at Christmas,” said irreverent 
Beatrice. 

“ She couldn’t do that. He might have declared war 
upon her,” Burrough went on. Trevalyor was not a 
57 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Cornish prince. His kingdom was in Devonshire, and 
it was poor, because it consisted of rocks and bogs.’’ 

Beatrice hummed again. ‘‘ I must be careful what I 
say about the king of Trevalyor,” she thought. 

“ The king of Biggletubben promised the princess all 
the finest jewels in the world, and everything else that her 
heart could desire. The king of Amalebria promised to 
make posterity remember her by writing a poem upon 
her beauty. But the king of Trevalyor could do nothing, 
except love her passionately.” 

“ Didn’t the others love her ? ” 

“ Yes, in their way. But one was so wrapped up in his 
wealth, and the other in his learning, that it was impossible 
for them to love her whole-heartedly, as the king of 
Trevalyor did. He could think of nothing else but the 
princess, and his only desire was to devote himself and 
his whole life to her and to her happiness.” 

‘‘Well,” said Beatrice, with a fine colour. “Which 
of them did she take ? ” 

“The princess could not make up her mind. She 
thought she would like the king of Biggletubben’s wealth, 
but she did not like him, because he was fat and ugly. 
The king of Amalebria was pale and serious, and there 
were deep lines of thought beneath his eyes. As for the 
king of Trevalyor, his kingdom was a poor and miserable 
one, and his palace was not much better than a hovel, 
and it stood right in the middle of a bog.” 

“ She ought to have chucked the lot and advertised,” 
commented the flippant voice. 

“ She went to see a white witch, and the witch told her 
if she would go to Cranmere pool and drink a little of 
the water, saying aloud three times the name of the king 

58 


How They boiled a Kettle. 

she desired to marry, she would find herself at once in 
love with that king, even if he were fat and ugly, like the 
king of Biggletubben/' 

“ I don’t see why the witch should have sent her to 
Dartmoor,” Beatrice objected, “ and to Cranmere. What 
a beast of a witch ! ” 

“ She went,” Burrough continued. “ And on the way 
she stopped to visit the king of Trevalyor. His kingdom 
was quite near Cranmere, and she had tea with him.” 

“ And he forgot the sugar,” murmured Beatrice to 
herself. 

“ He was the last of the three kings that she saw, and 
she went on to Cranmere thinking of him, and remember- 
ing the love in his eyes. She reached the pool, and 
gathered up some of the water in her hand.” 

“ I know it : Dirty slinky stuff, full of wriggling black 
things.” 

‘‘There she stood, making up her mind. She had 
only to say three times the name of King Biggletubben 
to be in love with him — ugliness, obesity, little pig’s eyes, 
and all.” 

“ Did she ? ” cried Beatrice eagerly. “ Did she go in 
for the diamonds ” 

“ Unfortunately the end of the story has not come 
down to us,” Burrough answered. “ You see it was 
written upon a calf-skin during the reign of King 
Arthur. One day the king wanted a strip of hide to 
fasten the Virginian creeper against the wall of his palace, 
so he cut off the bottom of the calf-skin. It was the 
part which contained the end of the story. After that 
nobody knew how it ended, or whether the Cornish 
princess chose the king of Biggletubben.” 

59 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“I ’spect she did,” Beatrice murmured. “ You see, she 
would have been in love with him after drinking the water 
of Cranmere, and though I dare say the king of Trevalyor 
was very nice, he had only a rotten little kingdom. After 
a year with him she would have grown very tired of canvas 
petticoats and hob-nailed boots. Biggletubben would 
have given her silks and laces, muslins, and purple, and 
fine linen, and she needn’t have broken it off altogether 
with Trevalyor. She could have dropped him a line 
now and again, ‘Meet me in the middle of your kingdom, 
and we’ll have tea again.’ Just a platonic tea-party, of 
course.” 

“ That would not have suited Trevalyor,” Burrough said. 

“ Of course not. He would have wanted to live 
happily with her ever afterwards. But he would have to 
be thankful for small mercies. Do you know what I 
should have said to Trevalyor ? I should have said, 
make war upon Biggletubben and Amalebria. If you can 
conquer them, you will have their kingdoms, and then 
you will be rich and powerful. If they conquer you, 
well — ^you haven’t much to lose.” 

“ There was no chance,” said Burrough gloomily. 
“ Trevalyor had no means and no influence. He could 
not even restore his palace, and there was nothing to be 
had out of his boggy kingdom.” 

“Then he didn’t marry no Cornish princesses,” said 
Beatrice. “ He had to put up with Molly, the milkmaid. 
She wouldn’t have objected to canvas petticoats and 
hob-nailed boots.” 

“ Perhaps they didn’t wear boots,” Burrough suggested. 

“ My s’ars ! ” cried Beatrice. “ No tan shoes ? What 
horny tootsies the poor girls must have had ! No use 
6o 


How They boiled a Kettle. 

tickling their soles. They would never have felt it. And 
how their feet must have spread ! What an age to live in : 
Fancy cutting a hole in the bottom of a sack, popping your 
head through, and saying, ‘Now Fm dressed for dinner! 

“ Perhaps the end of the story will be discovered some 
day,” Burrough went on. “ The strip of hide, which 
Arthur used to nail up the Virginian creeper, may be 
found in the ruins of Tintagel, and then we shall know. 
It is quite possible that the princess did become the 
queen of Trevalyor after all.” 

Beatrice had no reply to this ; but the rose-colour 
came into her cheek again. 

“ Don’t you think it was possible ? ” he urged. 

“ Trewidden, Trewinnard, Trewint 1 ” Beatrice hooted 
saucily. 

It was time to go. A shadow was creeping across 
Blissland, and the clouds were beginning to blush above 
Yes Tor. The girl packed every little bit of paper into 
her basket, with a wicked glance at her companion, as 
though she would say, “Who is the sinner now?” 
Burrough extinguished the glowing peat in the devil’s 
kitchen. He plucked a handful of asphodel, and spread 
it over the loose paper in the basket. Beatrice smiled 
and nodded. Then his heart bounded. She had taken 
a sprig and fastened it to her waist. As they walked on 
Burrough felt something upon his left side, clawing and 
struggling, like a bird trying to escape. How much more 
lovely she was, he thought, wearing the river asphodel than 
the pale and sickly syringa. 

Yet she was not lovely, not even pretty, as beauty goes. 
Only distracting. Mere beauty Burrough would have 
gazed at delightedly. It was torment to gaze upon 

6i 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Beatrice, and not touch her. Beauty appeals to the eye. 
Beatrice appealed to the five senses. He followed her, 
placing his feet where her tiny shoes had pressed. On 9 e 
she slipped back upon him. She recovered first, and 
hurried on. They returned by way of the Apron String. 

“ We never visited the island,” she said, as they came 
up the hill. 

“ We will — the next time,” Burrough replied. “ When 
will that be ? 1 won’t forget the sugar.” 

“ I shall bring a pocketful. The next time : Oh, I 
shall be there next Furry-day.” 

“ Friday ? ” he queried. 

“No, the eighth day of the week — Furry-day.” 

“ I know,” he said. “ That is the Cornish /eur — the 
Floralia, the survival of the Roman occupation. Don’t 
they dance hand-in-hand through the streets, carrying 
branches and flowers ? ” 

“ Yes. I’ve danced too, and I can sing the Furry-tune,” 
Beatrice gasped ; for the hill was very steep. 

“ But it may be any day,” he said appealingly. 

“ It may,” she replied pitilessly, “ any day of the week 
between Sunday and Saturday. Furry-day must be a 
fine day.” 

“ Then if it rains to-morrow . . . ? ” he began. 

“ There will be no Furry-tune.” 

“ If it is fine,” he went on. 

“The sun will shine,” she laughed. 

They parted upon the high moor at the top of the 
village. 

“ I think,” said Beatrice charmingly, as she held out 
her little hand, “we have enjoyed our poor lives this 
afternoon.” 


62 


CHAPTER VIL 


HOW BURROUGH CHATTED WITH A FELLOW-SCHOLAR. 

Burrough thought he knew what Beatrice meant when 
she mentioned the advice she would have given to the 
king of Trevalyor. Cast everything aside, and work. 
That was her advice. She had thrown back his allegory 
in his teeth. He had Biggletubben the world, and 
Amalebria the flesh, to fight. 

Very early the next morning Burrough went out upon 
the moor. Peter stretched himself, yawned, and followed. 
Both had a somewhat dissipated appearance. The man 
was unshaven and only half-dressed ; the cat had spent 
the night within the kitchen hearth. Burrough sat upon 
a rock. Peter took up his position hard by and blinked 
at the sun. 

“ King o’ the Cats,” said Burrough moodily. “ I wish 
I was not a classical scholar. I wish I was a successful 
lady novelist.” 

Peter glanced at his master, as though he would say, 
“ That’s two wishes. You have only one more.” 

“There are three ways of making money with the 
pen,” Burrough proceeded. “ The first is to write a 
successful play; the second to produce a novel which 
everyone reads ; and the third to tickle the palate of 
the public with highly-seasoned serials in halfpenny 
journals. Number one catches society ; number two the 

63 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

middle-class ; and number three the ‘ mostly fools ’ men- 
tioned by Carlyle. Now, Father Confessor, I can write 
neither play, novel, nor slush, as I believe the spicy serial is 
called. I can read Greek, and make Latin verses with a 
pitiful facility, but these accomplishments are not market- 
able. I can write good English, but there’s no money 
in that. Most editors seem to prefer ‘ that’s him ’ to 
‘ that’s he.’ Can’t you give me an idea for a novel ? 
Isn’t there something left to write about, some new passion, 
some fresh phase ? I feel alive this morning, King Peter ; 
full of new life and old ideas. This is just the time a 
new idea ought to come — if there’s one left. I could sit 
down and write a sonnet. I could throw off an essay; 
but sonnets and essays are things of the past. You 
could not sell a dozen sonnets now for the price of two 
fresh herrings. Your countenance grows animated, my 
dear cat. Shall we write a play together ? Act One, the 
moor. Scene, a hovel. Enter the king of Trevalyor and 
his cat ! ” 

Burrough would spend hours talking such nonsense as 
this to his dumb companion. 

He drew himself higher up the rock, embraced his 
knees, and smiled unhappily at the rugged prospect. 
Just then he was trying to forget Beatrice. It was the 
last time he made the attempt. Her vision was before 
him, as she stood short-skirted on the mass of granite 
surrounded by the gorse, heather and bracken of their 
tiny territory of Blissland. 

“You and I are not wanted. King Peter, and that’s 
a fact,” Burrough went on. “If I were to hang 
you, and shoot myself, nobody would benefit. We 
shouldn’t make room for anyone. I don’t fill any 
64 


A Fellow-Scholar. 


position. I’m not even the village reprobate. The 
simple life, my dear cat, is excellent in theory, but in 
practice it is abominably unpleasant. It is an existence 
of clods and dirt, of gritty food, and black-rimmed 
finger-nails. It is a life of peat-smoke and mountain mist. 
I wade through bogs ; I bark my shins against spurs of 
granite ; I fall into a crevasse, and cover my skin with 
gorse-prickles. That is the simple life. Inside I listen 
to the wind ; I play with my shadow ; I watch the lamp- 
light for some hours nightly. This is to be in touch with 
Nature. From the artistic point of view it is no doubt an 
ideal state. From the mental and moral standpoint it is 
a colossal failure. I would give all these grey tors, every 
gorse-bush, the heath, the bracken, and throw in the view 
and the cloudscape, for a nice little row of jerry-built 
stucco villas along the edge of the gorge.” 

There came a magpie sailing down the cleave, and 
then another. After them appeared a short figure, 
walking at its ease, armed with a gun, accoutred with a 
canvas bag, and accompanied by two spaniels. 

“ Let us consider these omens,” observed Burrough. 

Two magot-pies. That’s for mirth. Afterwards 
cometh Willum, head of the house of Cobbledick. 
He has begun his loafing early. He will be exhausted 
by noon, and have to lean against a wall till sunset. Let 
him trot by. But soft ! he carries letters, he brings good 
tidings. Glorious news, my dear Peter ! The Essayists 
are victorious — the armies of the foul rebel Slush have 
been defeated. The public has become enlightened, 
editors are marrying poetesses, essayists are allying them- 
selves to publishers’ daughters. That’s the message of 
the magpies. I shall be produced in fair parchment 

p.p. 65 F 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

covers, tied with green ribbons like prize beef, and 
beauteous ladies will dim my pages with their tears. And 
as for you, King o’ the Cats, you shall have the choicest 
cut from a Derby-winner for your supper.” 

Peter paused in his ablutions, and with paw uplifted 
regarded the approaching shapes. Evidently his impres- 
sions were unfavourable ; so he stepped forward, ready 
to curse and smite the first of the careless spaniels which 
should venture within range. 

William Cobbledick sometimes assisted the local post- 
man by carrying letters to the outlying parts. His reward 
was a pot of beer. Other benefits accruing to him were 
a sense of dignity in being as it were an official of state, 
and the right to call upon Burrough and a few others 
upon Boxing Day to wish them the compliments of the 
season. There was also the right to read postcards ; and 
the privilege of publishing any information thus acquired, 
after thorough and unscrupulous editing by Ann. 

“ Marning, sir,” said Willum, as he handed Burrough 
a newspaper and one letter. “ I’ve got five puppies, sir,” 
he went on, like an eager schoolboy. “ Born last 
night.” 

Really,” said Burrough. I hope you and the 
puppies are doing well.” 

Willum looked puzzled, his sense of humour not being 
keen. 

“ Yes, sir, this warm weather suits me wonderful. 
They pups be out of a prize bitch — least she would have 
taken a prize if I’d shown her. Fifteen shillun each, 
sir. Will ye take one ? I warrant ’en for a good nose.” 

“ Being neither sportsman nor poacher,” Burrough 
answered, “ I have no use for fifteen-shilling spaniels 
66 


A Fellow-Scholar. 


with highly developed organs of smell. What sort of 
nose will you guarantee — bottle, Roman, or pug ? ” 

‘•Well, sir,” said the scholar, completely mystified, 
“ I reckon ’twould be a bit of each. There’s surprising 
blood in they pups. There be the father, sir.” 

At that moment a wild howl uprose, and the proud father 
could be seen scurrying for shelter, with one eye pictu- 
resquely closed ; while Peter, who in vulgar parlance had 
dowsed his glim, licked his chops and tried very hard to grin. 

“ I warrant the Cheshire Pet for a good claw,” said 
Burrough. “ Here is a little arithmetical problem for 
you. If five puppies collectively are worth three 
pound, fifteen, what is the value of a cat which has 
defeated the father of said puppies ? ” 

“ Cats be vermin,” said Willum bitterly. 

Burrough laughed, and tore open his letter. A glance 
at it, and his face clouded. Most distinctly it was not a 
letter to glaze and hang in a frame. It did not announce 
that the day of sonneteer and essayist had returned. It 
was not an invitation from a publisher to submit great 
thoughts, which might be bound within parchment covers 
and tied with green ribbon, for the delectation of ladies 
with pink and white complexions. It was simply, “ a 
remittance by return will greatly oblige.” 

“As we are on the subject of problems, here is 
another — a domestic problem,” went on the cynic. 
“ How does a man live, when money goes out faster 
than it comes in.? ” 

“ On credit,” said Willum. He knew the answer to 
that well enough. 

“Now we have a social problem,” the young man 
went on. “ Here is a radical newspaper, which addresses 
67 F 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

me ‘ John Burrough, Esquire/ And here an obsequious 
conservative tradesman, who bids me be content with 
plain Mr. Burrough. What do you make of that ? ” 

“ It don’t mean nuthing,” replied the scholar con- 
temptuously. “ When I writes to a gentleman I puts 
Mister on one side and Squire on t’other. When I writes 
to a parson I puts Revellent as well. They likes that.” 

“ I should be inclined to doubt it,” muttered Burrough. 
“But on the main question you are right. It means 
nothing. If I write to a Government department to 
announce my inflexible will is to pay no more taxes, I 
receive in return a threatening letter which concludes, ‘ I 
am. Sir, your most obedient, humble servant.’ How do 
you finish off your letters, Willum ? ” 

“Always the same — ^yours truly,” replied Willum. 

“ That’s the safest way. But how many e’s are there 
in truly ? ” 

“You don’t catch me,” said the scholar grinning. 
“ There’s only one.” 

“ Your education seems complete,” said the cynic. 

“ I larnt myself. ’Tis what you call natural gift. I 
be just a man of born intellect,” said Willum modestly. 
“ If I hadn’t been consumptuous,” he went on, tapping 
his brawny chest, “ I’d a been a preacher. Sometimes I 
preach to mother at home. Makes her cry, I du.” 

“ I sympathise with Mrs. Cobbledick,” Burrough 
replied. 

“ I mun shoot a rabbut for dinner,” went on Willum 
shifting his antiquated gun. “ If I shoots a couple, 
will ye take one ? ” 

“ With pleasure,” came the answer. “If it be young, 
tender, and gratuitous.” 


68 


A Fellow-Scholar. 


“ I don’t shoot ’em when they be gratuitous,” said the 
scholar, making a bold and bad guess at the meaning of 
the word. “ Some du, but I don’t. I only shoots the 
buck rabbuts this time o’ year.” 

“ I don’t think I’ll trouble you to shoot me a buck 
rabbut. My cat supplies me, and makes no charge. 
And now I must cook my morning rasher and settle 
down to work. Have you ever written anything? ” 

“ Nothing,” replied the loafer. 

“What! You, a scholar! you, who lean against 
walls thinking, and roam the moor dreaming — you have 
written nothing.” 

“ I be an artist mostly,” said Willum in self-defence. 
“ I takes photographs.” 

“ And anything you can lay your hands on,” the other 
muttered. “ Do you read much, Willum ? ” 

“ Winter evenings I reads the Bible to mother. Makes 
her cry, it du.” 

“ Mrs. Cobbledick appears to be a somewhat lachry- 
mose personage. What makes her cry ? ” 

“ ’Tis my voice. It ain’t so much what I reads, as the 
way I reads it.” 

“The explanation is entirely satisfactory,” observed 
the cynic. 

“Then I reads to mother out of the Black Book,” 
Willum went on. 

“ Crockford’s Clerical Directory, I believe ? ” said 
Burrough, who knew all about this local celebrity’s two- 
volumed library. “ Does that make mother cry ? ” 

“ No, she don’t cry over that. I reads it more spirited 
like. When any parson comes here I alius looks ’en up 
in the Black Book to find out his pedigree. Sometimes 
69 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

he’s there. Sometimes he ain’t. If he ain’t in, us don’t 
trust ’en. Mother says, ‘ Look ’en up in the Black Book, 
Willum.’ If he ain’t there she wun’t let ’en have cream 
and butter wi’out the money down.” 

Rather hard on the younger clergy, thought Burrough, 
knowing as he did that the directory in question was 
quite a decade out of date. 

“You should study, Willum,” he said impressively. 
“You should read, and improve your mind, that mind 
which has been lying fallow for so long. You should pore 
over histories, and acquire languages. A little learning — 
you know the old saw, Willum? It’s a dangerous thing.” 

“ True, sir, me and you knows that. There be Mrs. 
Cann to the Post Office. Her don’t know much, but her 
thinks she du, and her tongue goes like the old saw you 
was talking about. They ain’t no scholars here. Just 
me and you, and Mr. Yeoland — he knew a lot ’fore he 
got dafty.” 

“Come inside and look at my books,” Burrough said, 
as he slipped off the rock. His fellow-scholar followed, 
looking somewhat unhappy. They passed in, and 
Burrough ushered the many-sided genius into the study, 
and nodded towards the long rows of books. Willum’s 
spirit grew faint within him. 

“ Here,” said Burrough wickedly, as he pulled out a 
handsomely-bound Thucydides, “we have the most 
famous example of vicious rhetoric ” 

“ I knows ’en,” muttered Willum, his pale-blue eyes 
staring frightfully. “Vicious ain’t hardly the word. 
Ain’t fit for wimmin. I couldn’t read ’en to mother.” 

“ I believe you,” came the guileless answer. “ This 
is more your line — the tragedies of Sophocles.” 

70 


A Fellow-Scholar. 


“ I knows ’en,” Isaid Willum again. “ So does Mr. 
Yeoland. Talked of ’en many a time us has. Mr. 
Yeoland buried Sophocles down to Cornwall, Porthleven 
way.” He pronounced the poet’s name so that it might 
have rhymed with cockles. 

“ Really that is most interesting,” said the tormentor. 
“ Evidently you have been given access to information of 
which I have been unable to avail myself. Herodotus of 
course you know ? ” he added carelessly. 

“ Him what cut off John Baptist’s head ? ” Willum 
suggested, feeling that here at least he was on safe 
ground. 

“ His younger brother,” replied Burrough, with utmost 
gravity. 

“ That’s him,” exclaimed the scholar. “ They calls 
’en Herod Antifat in the Bible.” 

“ Because he was a very thin man, I suppose ? ” 

“ That’s it, sir, that’s it,” cried Willum, in high 
delight. “ Me and you gets on fine ! ” 

“I am going to make a slight addition to your 
library,” Burrough said, as he picked out a couple of 
unwanted books — a cheap Greek testament and a small 
Sanskrit dictionary — and held them out to the local 
celebrity. “ They will be a source of interest to you 
during winter evenings to come. I will not insult you by 
describing them. The dictionary is fairly ample in spite 
of its smallness. When in doubt of a word you can look 
it up here — and 1 hope you will find it,” he concluded 
heartily. 

The scholar’s gratitude, if partly simulated, was 
expressed so ardently that Burrough nearly felt ashamed 
of himself. There was no doubt a spice of cruelty in 

71 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

his nature, that inborn cruelty common to all living 
things in Nature — to the sundew which sucked the flies, 
and to King Peter who played with a baby rabbit. 
Burrough felt a certain spiteful enjoyment in thus 
playing with Willum, because he had an idea that at 
least upon one occasion during the day preceding 
Beatrice had been, not wilfully cruel perhaps, but 
a little bit lacking in proper sympathy for the king of 
Trevalyor. 

Beatrice could not be like Peter, who tormented the 
baby rabbit out of sheer wickedness. That was impos- 
sible, because Beatrice was divine. Two days before 
she had been a girl, only a girl with tiny feet. Already 
she was a goddess. Promotion was never more rapid. 
But, Burrough pondered, the sundew did not catch and 
suck the fly out of wilful cruelty. It destroyed the fly 
simply because it was its nature so to do. 

Then Burrough went off to cook the rasher for his 
long-postponed breakfast; while Willum, after shooting 
a rabbit, loafed home to astonish his doting mother by 
exhibiting his new literary treasures, which he explained 
as “A Chinese Bible, and a book to show how ’twas 
done.” 


72 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HOW THEY WENT SWALING. 

“ Auntie,” said Beatrice, moodily, “ I’ve got the 
blooming hump. I am going for a walk on the blasted 
moor.” 

“ My dear, you should not,” Miss Pentreath quavered 
gently. “ You must not use such language.” 

“ Is it naughty ? ” her niece enquired. “ Shall she 
suck her finger and look penitent ? Well, she ain’t 
a going to. She’s afflicted with the blues, on account of 
the vagaries of this Dartmoor climate. She has a melan- 
choly, splenetic, and acrimonious humour. She’s got 
the megrims. She’s dumpish, mumpish, and sulkish, on 
account of the rain. There, auntie ! see the possibilities 
of the Anglo-American language, and choose the 
expression you like best.” 

“ I can’t think where you pick it up,” Miss Pentreath 
protested. 

“The educational value of the present-day novel is 
great,” said Beatrice. 

“ You read the most improper books.” 

“ You read them too, my dear, or you wouldn’t know,” 
the girl replied. 

“But I’ve not been married, never engaged even,” 
complained Miss Pentreath. “ I am entitled to a little 
mild excitement.” 


73 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Beatrice shrieked with laughter. ** What a wicked little 
old woman it was,” she cried. ‘‘ Never mind, Auntie. 
We are all wicked, so why be humbugs ? ” 

“ I am not wicked,” objected Miss Pentreath. “ I have 
had no chance. I go to church on Sundays, and I read 
a sermon every evening. If only they would write 
interesting sermons I would read more of them.” 

“You paint — you’re a rouge dragon,” cried lively 
Beatrice. 

“ Art is beautiful, age is not,” sighed Miss Pentreath. 

“ False teeth, false hair, false complexion, and — naugh- 
tiest of all — false bosom,” Beatrice indicted. 

“ Do leave me alone,” sighed Miss Pentreath. “ You’ll 
be like it yourself some day.” 

“ Anyhow Pll have grandchildren to tease me, not 
nieces. It’s stopped raining, and I’m going out — to the 
blasted moor aforesaid. Now I’ll tuck you up, give you 
lollies to suck, and you can read a sermon while you 
make nice cobwebby point lace to deck my garments 
withal.” 

Miss Pentreath was a harmlessly wanton little lady. She 
dressed in the style of a young girl, with flowers and 
ribbons, saucy frocks, laced petticoats, baby hats, and 
other allurements which it was her weakness to exhibit 
when crossing a muddy road. Her face was decidedly 
not her own : her soft tresses and fringe were equally 
exotic. Her efforts to secure a husband would have been 
of some humour had they not been pathetic. A few 
years before she had made her last stake, and been 
within sight of the goal. An elderly and short-sighted 
clergyman became entangled. On an evil day he escorted 
INIiss Pentreath to a circus and travelling menagerie. 
74 


How They went Swaling. 

There was a cageful of monkeys, and the coquettish lady 
stood before it, and poked playfully at the progenitors of 
her species with a beribboned parasol. Suddenly an 
ape seized the ferrule, and drew her close to the cage. 
Instantly a dozen paws shot forth, hat and hair vanished, 
while a general disrobing process went on below. The 
short-sighted clergyman became very properly aghast at 
the appearance of the lay-figure, which continued to 
undergo the throes of transformation — a sort of rough 
rehearsal of what he might expect the night after “ The 
voice that breathed o’er Eden,” had been sung for his 
benefit. Modesty and dismay impelled him to retire. 
Miss Pentreath’s hat and hair were rent to shreds ; while 
her gloves and handkerchief were with some difficulty 
recovered from the cheek-pouch of a baboon. 

The bachelor-lady, as she was fond of styling herself — 
having a not unreasonable hatred for the ugly word 
spinster — was the slave of her niece. Beatrice was quite 
independent. She was of age, and possessed means of 
her own. She was the only surviving child of a defunct 
Cornish vicar who had been Miss Pentreath’s favourite 
brother. The little painted lady was terribly afraid lest 
her niece should run away, and leave her to old-maidish 
loneliness which her soul abhorred. So she pandered to 
the girl’s tastes, refrained from crossing her wishes, and 
behaved generally just as that wayward young person 
desired. She did not want Beatrice to marry, having a 
very shrewd idea that no future nephew-by-marriage 
would permit such a very draggled and washed-out 
butterfly as herself to flit about his house. 

Evading Mrs. Cobbledick, who would have detained 
her with fine rambling phrases concerning butter and 
75 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

tombstones and the gradual wasting-away of Willum, 
Beatrice emerged into the village street, hatless and 
charming. She had made up her mind which direction 
to take while she was putting her shoes on. She had 
said something about “ a little crooked house ” while she 
laced them. And she had laughed to herself, “ Good- 
morrow, Jack ! poor Jack ! ” while she tied them. 

The early promise of the day had not been fulfilled. 
Rain had followed sunshine, and Beatrice knew that 
Blissland would be “ clamp and dammy,” as she ex- 
pressed it. Twilight was threatening, as she left the 
rush-thatched cottage where successive generations of 
Cobbledicks had sinned, and faced the moor where a 
fresh breeze was drying the heather and bracken. There 
was hardly a sign of the recent summer rain upon the 
rough track ; and the peaty moorland was dry already. 
It was one of those evenings when the atmosphere seems 
to tickle young folk, making them long to laugh and 
jump and scream. 

“ I’ll do it,” said Beatrice. “ It’s shocking, but I’m 
not going to be lonesome.” 

She jumped over a gorse-bush, and pricked her 
ankles, which made her squeal. A couple of moormen, 
whom she had not perceived, stopped and stared in the 
hope she would jump again. She did not, but proceeded 
quite demurely, until she reached the little cottage with 
the tin roof at the end of the gorge. There was nobody 
in sight. She did not see Peter lying on his favourite 
rock, replete with young rabbit ; but Peter saw her, and 
drew his own conclusions. 

Beatrice knocked at the door. She heard a sound 
within, as of a pile of books falling heavily. She pushed 
76 


How They went Swaling. 

the door open, and called saucily, ‘‘ Please, Pm the boy 
from the grocer. Pve brought the sugar.” 

The next instant Burrough stood before her, lacking 
coat and collar, his face flushed, his manner nervous, as 
shy as a child. Willum at that moment was mightily 
avenged. It was a different Burrough from the superior 
creature who had persecuted the scholar. He could 
hardly believe his eyes. Beatrice alone upon his humble 
threshold ! 

“ Is this ‘ the Rising Sun,’ ‘ the Setting Moon,’ ‘ the 
Twinkling Star,’ or anything beery of that sort ? ” Beat- 
rice rattled away at once. “ Because I’ve brought a little 
thirst with me ; quite a young one, but it’s growing fast.” 

Will you come in ? ” Burrough invited nervously. 

“ Not to-day, thank you. It wouldn’t do to be found 
upon unlicensed premises. Will you give me a glass of 
milk?” 

“ Do come in,” he went on, in a somewhat dazed 
fashion. 

“ I wun’t,” she said. “ If you refuse me a drink I must 
go on to the next house.” 

At that he hurried away, and brought her a glass of 
milk. She accepted delicately, then suggested that he 
might go and “ dress himself ” while she drank. When 
he returned he discovered that Beatrice had employed 
her leisure by inscribing upon his door with a chalky 
stone the two doggerel lines — 

“John Burrough lives here, 

He sells brandy and beer.” 

The twilight had come. He thought her face looked 
more distracting than ever. 

77 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ What was’t ye’ doing man ? ” she inquired playfully, 
in the dialect of the moor. 

“ I was working,” he answered her gravely. “ Trying 
to, rather.” 

“Come on out! Let’s go swaling,” said Beatrice. 

“It’s too late in the year.” 

“ We shall get off under the First Offenders’ Act,” 
Beatrice reminded him. “Go and get two boxes of 
matches.” 

Burrough obeyed. It was delightful to be ordered 
about his own premises by the maid of the tiny feet. 
When he appeared with the matches, Beatrice pointed to 
a deep cleft on the side of the moor across the river, and 
remarked, “ That’s a good place. We’ll start there.” 

“ There are vipers in that gorge,” warned Burrough. 

“ We’ll burn ’em out,” cried vicious Beatrice. 

They hurried down, through the gathering gloom and 
the mist which was rolling up the cleave. A herd of 
ponies stampeded before them, and Beatrice shouted to 
make them run faster. She jumped from rock to rock, 
bounded over tufts of heather, furrowed her way through 
bracken, jumped the gorse-patches. It was as good as a 
dance. Her blood was fired by that mad scamper 
through the evening air and the shadows. She was intoxi- 
cated with the freedom of the wild moor. She bounded 
into a bog, and screamed, “ I’m a-stugged ! ” She was 
out again, with brown shoes blacked, and stockings 
stained. Burrough was panting after her, short of breath 
already. The girl went so fast. They reached the edge 
of the foaming river, and searched for a crossing. 

“ Come on,” cried the maid of the mist. “ Here be a 
gurt stoane ! One-tew-dree.” She jumped, reached the 

78 


How They went Swaling. 

stone with a light toe, and turned laughing. “ Here’s 
anudder.” She jumped again, shrieking with mirth 
when she heard a splash behind. Burro ugh had missed 
the stone, and was in over his knees. Beatrice went 
across like a water-wagtail, and Burrough came flounder- 
ing after. 

“ More bogs,” cried an excited voice. “ Gugh ! ain’t 
it messy Lucky I’ve got old do’ on — if anyone does 
pick up a garter in the mud they may think just what 
they like,” she murmured to herself. “ I know I’ve lost 
it, and the mud is pulling my stocking down, and on the 
whole it’s as well that the shades of night are falling 
fast.” 

“ Are you all right ? ” sang out her companion. 

“ Bog-trotting nicely thanks. Where’s the gorge ? ” 

‘‘More to the left. I can hear the water rushing 
down it.” 

“ My feet are like coal-barges. They’m mucky twoads. 
Oh Tregony ! Here’s a pincushion. I’ve walked right 
into it. Matches — quick before the mist swallows us. 
I'm in the middle of the gorse.” 

“Let me,” cried Burrough, groping up over the 
slippery stones. “ You will prick your hands.” 

“ They are pricked,” gasped Beatrice, excitedly. 
“ Like fretful porcupines. Come on ! Stick it in here.” 

She was on her knees, making a hole in the bleached 
tangle of grass, below the furze where the rain had not 
penetrated. Burrough lighted several matches with 
shaking, awkward .fingers. The wind blew them out. 
Beatrice swore softly in Cornish. At last the flame 
touched the grass. It spluttered, a gentle hissing began, 
the dry gorse-prickles caught. A moment later a furious 
79 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

crackling commenced, and then a wide yellow sheet of 
flame darted up, waving like a revolutionary flag. 

“Now it will go like blue blazes,” cried Beatrice. 
“ Hear it whine ! There it goes again.” 

The burning gorse gave forth a sharp, plaintive sound, 
something between a whistle and a moan, which lasted for 
some seconds before dying away in a shrill staccato gasp. 

“ I can’t help it. I must scream too,” cried Beatrice. 
“ Oh, there’s nothing so good as swaling. Let’s light 
both sides of the gorge. There it rips ! Heather, gorse, 
and grass, in an everlasting bonfire. Isn’t the smell 
delicious ? ” 

They lighted the gorse in a dozen different places. 
They worked like stokers. The gorge became a glowing 
furnace. The flames roared below; the wind howled 
above. The foaming river beneath was blood-red. 
Showers of sparks rained in, and went out hissing. 

“ Lucky there’s been rain to-day,” gasped Burrough, 
as he stumbled by with a burning brand. 

“Lucky? It’s a pity,” protested Beatrice. “We’d 
have burnt the moor to Cranmere.” 

An equally excited neighing went up on either side of 
the gorge ; and out of the smoke came the shaggy heads 
and flowing manes of a score of ponies, drawn thither by 
the fragrance of burning gorse. Normally wild and 
frightened when near human beings, their shyness 
became forgotten when there was a prospect of a warm 
and comforting supper upon charred green gorse. Soon 
they came up in numbers, almost stepping into the flames 
in their eagerness to secure the blackened shoots. 

“ Keep it up,” Beatrice shouted, when her companion 
showed signs of flagging. 


8o 


How They went Swaling. 

“ I expect we are destroying nests of young birds,” he 
answered. 

“ Poor dears ! ” she panted. Never mind. They 
won’t suffer much. It will be soon over. One whiff of 
flame, and they’ll be grilled. And the parents will be so 
pleased. They won’t have to bring them worms and 
things.” 

The reason Burrough had stayed his destroying hand 
was that he might watch Beatrice. She had never 
appeared so fascinating. Her hair was tumbling upon 
her shoulders, partly singed, entirely crumpled. Her 
heated face was smudged distractingly. Her hands were 
blackened, scratched, and bleeding. She was like a 
lovely witch in that fierce light. Beneath her short skirt, 
and over her muddy shoe, he could perceive from time 
to time a loose roll of brown silk. All around her 
roared the flames of the swaling-fires. The ponies 
poked their hungry muzzles in between. 

“ The gorse is full of blossom here,” a voice observed, 
with a tinge of regret, “ bunches of golden bloom, 
shrivelling, going brown, and black. We’ve done 
enough,” Beatrice exclaimed. “ My matches are finished, 
and I’m tired.” 

She stood for a moment, watching the waving line of 
fire, her hands upon her hips, then sank upon a moss- 
covered boulder, and mopped her face with a small 
handkerchief. Gradually she slipped from the rock, 
which afforded a poor resting place, and dived feet first 
into the thick heather. She stretched herself out 
luxuriously, as upon a fragrant yielding bed, lowered her 
head languorously with little squirms of pleasure, and 
half closed her eyes against the fierce light of the fires. 

p.p. 8i G 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

As he approached Burrough could perceive her tightly- 
fitting grey jersey rising and falling with her quick 
breath. 

“ I’m tired, heavenly tired,” she murmured. ‘‘ This 
is reaction. Oh ! ” she cried, with sudden nervousness. 
“ Don’t let the ponies trample on me.” 

“ There are no ponies here,” her companion said. He 
too was panting, and his body was at fever heat, and the 
thrilling reaction was over him too. He seated himself 
on the edge of her springy bed, and dared to lean slightly 
over so that he could look down upon her face. In the 
meantime the wind carried the swaling fires onward and 
away. The weird light still flickered around the heather 
bed. 

It’s getting late,” Beatrice said sleepily. “ Auntie 
will be waiting supper for me. It’s like a dream. I can 
feel the wind rocking the heather. How warm and red 
the fire is ! This is the seventh heaven. There ! ” 
She gave a big gasp. “ Now my breath has come 
back.” 

“ You are sweet, Beatrice ; you are sweet,” thought 
Burrough ; and he compressed his lips to keep the words 
from issuing. 

“ Was that the fire, or the wind .? Or did you speak ? ” 
asked she. 

“You look lovely lying there,” he said, after a pause, 
in a hard voice. 

“ I can’t help it,” she replied, with a little smile. 

“ And I’m too tired to care.” 

“ Oh, very lovely,” he said, more calmly and precisely. 

“Trewidden, Trewinnard, Trewint ! ” murmured 
Beatrice. 


82 


How They went Swaling. 

Burrough was by nature a shy man, and a modest. He 
turned his head away. Had he not done so, he would 
have fallen beside her and kissed her on the neck. 

“ What a funny idea ! ” half whispered Beatrice, as 
though confiding to herself. “ A girl with a little crooked 
nose, also a little crooked mouth, likewise two little 
crooked eyes, not forgetting various black smudges, 
singes, and burns, distributed about the small features 
hereinbefore mentioned, and described as aforesaid, — 
lovely ! My stars ! ” 

“Your face is not burnt,” muttered Burrough, in a 
sudden passion of love. 

“ My hand be — burnt horrid.” 

Instantly he seized the hand, which was resting on 
a tuft of heather and swaying with the breeze. But 
Beatrice began to whimper like a fretful child. 

“ You hurt. Doan’t ye be cruel ! Doan’t ye, now I ” 

He released the hand from pressure at once, and let 
it lie resting upon his, just as it had rested a moment 
before upon the heather. 

“ It’s a pincushion,” she explained, “ cram-jam wi’ 
prickles from the gorse. You squeezed the prickles in. 
You can’t see them. They’re too wee.” 

“ But they hurt you ? ” he said, in a voice unmistakably 
tender. 

“ Cruel ! There’s one in the top of my little finger, 
and it’s a beast of a prickle.” 

“ Let me take it out.” 

“ I won’t be hurt,” she declared. 

“ There’s only one way of getting out these gorse 
prickles.” 

“Well ? ” said Beatrice resignedly. 

83 


G 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

He lifted her hand, found the tiny speck on the top of 
the little finger by the light of the fires, and proceeded to 
extract it with his teeth. Beatrice laughed a little, pro- 
tested, murmured, then sighed, and finally composed 
herself with half-closed eyes and quivering mouth. The 
prickle was taken out, but there were others, and one 
particularly in the soft pink palm which it was very 
difficult to get at. The little hand was hot and grimy. 
It was scented with smoke and the wild fragrance of the 
moor. It trembled like an imprisoned bird. Some of 
the scratches had bled. 

The fires began to die down. They had reached bogs 
higher up, and the night settled gradually upon the bed 
of heather where Beatrice reposed, sighing, and some- 
times giving little moans and wriggles, when the process 
of extraction hurt her nerves. She did not speak until 
the fires within had burnt out, as those above were doing, 
and she began to feel that the wind was chilly and her 
bed damp. Then she shivered and sat up. 

“ My feet are so cold,” she said. “ I had forgotten 
they were wet.” 

Looking down, she suddenly became ashamed. I 
didn’t know it was like that,” she murmured. “ I’m a 
wild, careless little devil, and I lost a garter in that bog. 
Why shouldn’t I say so ? I’m a sensible Cornish girl. 
I’m not a prude.” Then she looked up at Burrough 
winningly, but there was not much fun left in her. 

Aren’t you drefful tired and stiff ? I am.” 

“ I will take you back to the village,” Burrough replied. 
“ I know this bit of moor, and I can steer you clear of 
bogs. I am so sorry about — what you have lost, and if 
I can help you ” 


84 


How They went Swaling. 

“You see, this skirt is so short. And people say such 
beastly things.” 

Burrough was wearing knickerbockers and stout 
woollen stockings. He bent as he spoke, and a moment 
later held out a strap taken from his own leg, saying, “ If 
this is of any use to you ” 

Beatrice glanced up delightedly, with the old mischief 
on her face. 

“Thank you very much. Sir John Burrough, K.G. 
Now will you please go away, mutter a Paternoster, and 
then come back to take me home ? ” 


85 


CHAPTER IX. 


HOW THEY PLAYED AT HIDE-AND-SEEK. 

The next morning a letter reached Burrough contain- 
ing an offer to take his cottage for the next two months 
at a weekly rental of three guineas. The letter came 
from an agent in Exeter. A few weeks back he would 
have jumped at the offer ; but since discovering the foot- 
print in the sand his desires had changed. He knew he 
could not go away. 

He argued with himself concerning the offer, although 
he knew he should end by refusing it. The money 
meant much to him. Idleness was playing havoc with 
his prospects. Since that first meeting with Beatrice he 
had done nothing except to write a few sonnets which in 
the inevitable order of things would find a last resting- 
place in some waste-paper basket. His work upon the 
stone remains of Dartmoor had come to a standstill. 
The Queen of Blissland had put a stop to that, as to all 
other serious undertakings. Burrough was dancing the 
dance of fools, and living in their paradise. 

“ I wish I had a friend,” he muttered, someone to 
talk over things with, who would kick me when I am 
foolish, and prop me up when I can’t stand alone. I 
love the girl, and she knows it ; but I can’t tell her. I 
know I shall never tell her. If I could only get rid of 
my pride 1 It might be well for me if I could lose my 


How They played at Hide-and-Seek. 

self-restraint for a few moments. I nearly did last night. 
My boy, you should have some courage. Write and 
accept this offer, run into Cornwall and hide until the 
summer is over, then return with the mud and mists, and 
crawl back into your shell to work and forget.” 

Down he went at his table, seized pen and paper, and 
began to scribble. 

“ It’s sheer madness to suppose she would come here,” 
he went on. “ A girl who is her own mistress, who is 
fascinating enough to bring anyone to her feet here ! 
As well expect to find sunshine at the bottom of a 
mine. Beatrice making her clothes here ! Beatrice 
walking on a stone floor beneath a tin roof ! Beatrice 
cooking, bed-making, washing up ! She gave me her 
answer when I told her about the three kings. It should 
have been plain. The highest bidder wins. Well, I’ve 
made up my mind. I’ll go away.” 

Another thought occurred to him, and he leaned back 
to bring his mind to bear upon it. 

“ She wouldn’t object to this place in the summer,” he 
said. “ Girls like roughing it in summer-time. They 
will live anywhere then, and pretend to enjoy this simple 
life, which is so unutterably drab and dirty in reality. 
It’s the winter she wouldn’t stand. What girl would live 
on top of Dartmoor during winter ? I’ll get me away far 
off. I will never see Beatrice again. The King of 
Trevalyor must put up with Molly the milkmaid.” 

He scratched away at the letter, and pushed it quickly 
into an envelope, because he was too ashamed to read it. 
Various circumstances, he explained, had caused him to 
alter his mind, and he did not intend to let his cottage 
that summer. 


87 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Obviously, the next thing was to get as close to Beatrice 
as possible ; and with that end in view Burrough set forth 
in the direction of Blissland. It was a very fine morn- 
ing, too hot for climbing and tumbling. Even the rivers 
were listless. The highest tor had no cap of cloud. It 
would be wicked, Burrough thought, to waste such 
glorious hours. It was an ideal Furry-day — the eighth 
day of the week, the day which could not be wasted by 
idle, amorous mortals, simply because it was an extra bit of 
life, an added slice of time, a sort of thirty-first of June, a 
little bonus paid by summer to those who would observe 
Floralia. It was a day to carry flowers and branches, 
and to dance hand-in-hand. 

It was a considerable distance from the edge of the 
gorge to the nook at the bend of the river ; but Burrough 
accomplished it within half-an-hour, which, it may be sur- 
mised, meant a certain amount of running. He was not 
perceptibly troubled by the heat. 

He entered the secret nook by the way across the bog 
which Beatrice had named Skelywidden. There was no 
sign of her ladyship. Burrough began to be sorry he had 
come. Peering over the rocks, he saw nothing that was 
interesting ; but as he made his moody way towards the 
river, along the path which his own feet had worn, he 
saw a cleft stick set upright in the peat, supporting a 
scrap of paper, w'hich he pounced upon, opened, and 
read, “To all whom it may concern. Please go to the 
Apron String.” 

Burrough chuckled. Beatrice had guessed he would 
come, and that he would arrive by Skelywidden. She 
was, no doubt, taking her ease at the other end of the 
bend. 


88 


How They played at Hide-and-Seek. 

But when he got there he saw only another piece of 
paper. It was impaled upon a gorse-bush, and upon it 
was written, “You are requested not to burn the gorse. 
If you will be so good as to follow the thread, you will 
arrive at the summit of Be Lovely Beacon. N.B. — There 
is a fine view.” 

“ The mad girl ! ” exclaimed Burrough. 

A glance at the gorse-bush showed him a piece of red 
thread tied to a bunch of prickles. Picking it up, 
Burrough was guided to the pile of rocks at the edge of 
the bog. He looked up, but there w'as no Beatrice. The 
thread went up from rock to rock, so he followed until 
he stood upon the highest point. He did not stop to 
look at the view, because the first thing he saw was 
another piece of paper, lying upon the summit, with a 
stone upon it to keep it in place. Evidently Beatrice was 
in rare Furry-day humour ; but, better than that, she had 
expected him, and was waiting for him, and had most 
ingeniously hidden herself away from him. Upon this 
piece of paper she had written, “This is Be Lovely 
Beacon. So sorry to trouble you, but, now that you have 
marched up the hill, you had better march down again. 
I wonder if you will be able to find the Menacuddle. 
That is your next stopping-place. N.B . — Do admire 
the view.” 

There was no particular view to admire, as the bog 
precipice rose on the other side of the river, and the 
trees upon the eyot blotted out the prospect in front. 
For the rest, there was nothing but the bog of sun- 
dews. Burrough shrewdly guessed that the invitation 
to admire the view was a key to the next discovery. 
He was right, for directly he looked out from the top 
89 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

of the Beacon his eye was attracted by something 
white in the seat of the granite chair beside the river. 
It did not take him long to get down and across. 
This piece of paper was crumpled into a ball, and 
there was something inside it. As he pulled it open his 
garter, fell out, and on smoothing the paper he read — 

“ For this relief much thanks. This is the place 
which is called Menacuddle. Your wanderings are now 
over. Do sit down ! Sorry not to see you before my 
departure. I have gone to Cumberland. Good-bye.” 

The day became dark, and the sunshine was so much 
chilly moonlight that instant. Beatrice had gone away ! 
And to the other end of England ! She had taken her 
fascinations to the dark and distant north, and her dainty 
feet would leave their small, unseen impressions upon the 
sand and gravel of a Cumberland fell. And he was left 
to wander alone in Blissland, and to be pixy-led upon 
the “ deysarts of Dertymore.” The eclipse was total. 

Burrough lowered himself into the granite chair which 
the fanciful girl had dignified with the title of Mena- 
cuddle and tried to think. Beatrice had been with him 
until late — it was disgracefully late — the preceding even- 
ing, and she had then said nothing about going away. 
It was obvious she had been to the secret nook that 
morning. She could not have spared two hours just to 
play him this trick if she had been making preparations 
for a journey which would necessitate her departure by 
the earliest train. He decided she was at her pranks 
again. Probably she had seen him coming along the 
sky-line. She would have been given ample time to 
make these arrangements for his mystification. 

90 


How They played at Hide-and-Seek. 

Good heaven ! another piece of paper ! It was lying 
near his feet beside a clump of bracken. It was a tiny 
scrap, and the writing upon it was microscopic. Bur- 
rough held the missive close to his eyes, and presently 
mastered the directions. 

Mixed bathing is not allowed along the Cumberland 
coast. They are unco’ reeleegious bodies there. It will 
be time enough for you to gang north when the owls 
begin to toot. Mind the mountains in the Lake District. 
They are slithery with dew. And don’t — please don’t — 
tread upon London, or there will be a revolutionary 
upheaval, and you’ll get bitten. — I am. Sir, your most 
disobedient servant, “The Zawn Pyg.” 

This was mere midsummer madness, and Burrough 
could make nothing of it except the one thing which was 
of supreme importance — Beatrice was near. Probably she 
was in hiding quite near, enjoying his perplexity. The 
thought that she might be watching him with mischievous 
eyes stirred his self-respect into activity. He would show 
her he did not care ; that he would not have missed her 
had she really gone to Cumberland. So he lolled back 
in the Menacuddle, permitting himself thoughts of what 
that name suggested, lighted a cigarette, and tried to look 
indolent and unconcerned. Still he could not refrain 
from glancing now to the right, now to the left, in the 
hope of sighting his tormentor, who was also queen and 
goddess of the place. 

The cigarette was nearly consumed before an amateurish 
owl hooted, “ Trewoofe ! ” 

Burrough returned an answering cry, and the un- 
feathered fowl obligingly rebooted in Cornish. 

91 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

The puzzle was to find the bird. At length the orni- 
thologist determined it must be perched somewhere 
within the eyot. He set forth in that direction, and was 
nearing the water’s edge, when he perceived a miniature 
signpost, consisting of a short stick with a slip of paper 
fastened into a cleft and pointing towards the eyot. It 
bore the information, “To Cumberland.” 

Burrough scrambled over the rocks and squirmed 
through the dense undergrowth between the two noisy 
currents. He was soon at the other end of the eyot, 
upon the open space near the thicket of osmunda, where 
he had discovered the tiny footprint in the sand. There 
were duplicates of that footprint everywhere, but the girl 
who had caused them was invisible. A line of red thread 
was fastened to a couple of rowans, and upon the thread 
two handkerchiefs were drying. Yet another piece of 
paper was fastened round the thread and secured by a 
hairpin. 

“She is carrying the joke too far,” Burrough said, 
moodily. “ It’s not fair to lead me this dance just because 
she knows all the ins and outs of this place so thoroughly. 
Why, I declare she must have been bathing ! ” 

Fortified by the assurance that Beatrice was near and 
would be with him presently, if for no other reason than 
to secure her “ towels,” he unfastened the half-sheet of 
notepaper and read — 

“ Well, here you are again. I was ordered a change of 
air, and had to leave Cumberland at once. There wasn’t 
even time to wait for my washing to be sent home. My 
address until one o’clock will be ' Top of Cleave Tor, 
Under the Second Gorse-bush where you turn to the 
92 


How They played at Hide-and-Seek. 

right from the Whortleberry Clump, which lies beneath 
the Shadow of the Rock, where the Iceland Moss grows.’ 
Got that ? I hope you’ll call if you’re passing ; and, if 
it’s not troubling you too much, would you bring my 
washing ? So sorry to have missed you, but I heard the 
piper and had to dance. I’m one of the Merry Maidens, 
so at noon I must dance on and away.” 

“ Cleave Tor is a mile from here,” Burrough mut- 
tered, not entering in the least into the spirit of the 
game. 

He guessed how Beatrice had evaded him. She must 
have crossed the river, jumping from one crag to another, 
and escaped by some way known to her through the bog 
forest. It was no use trying to find her while in that mad 
holiday humour, since she knew every foot of that secret 
nook, and if pursued could hide from him with ease. 
There was nothing for it but to cross the bog of sundews 
and climb to the summit of Cleave Tor. 

Burrough was disgusted with himself. Here was a fine 
morning utterly wasted. He would have been much 
better employed at his writing-table. Even if he had 
failed to turn out anything he would have felt he had 
done his best. He made up his mind to return at once 
and make a profitable use of what remained of the 
morning; but this was merely a roundabout way of 
determining to hurry up Cleave Tor as hard as he could, 
still hopeful of catching the Merry Maiden before she 
danced home to lunch. 

The thought occurred that Beatrice might be avoiding 
him on account of his action the evening before when the 
swaling fires were burning. That fear did not distress 
93 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

him for long. She had not been displeased then. 
Neither was she offended with him now. Her gay 
messages proclaimed as much. She was merely amusing 
herself. Had it not been for that “ crooked little nose ” 
Burrough might have given up the pursuit and gone home 
to work. As things were, because that nose was crooked, 
Burrough would have followed his tormentor across every 
bog and tor upon Dartmoor. Tenderly he removed the 
w'et handkerchiefs, examined them carefully, gloated over 
the “B ” worked in white silk upon each, felt them, pressed 
them, and quite possibly kissed them, then folded them 
neatly, and consigned them tenderly to the breast-pocket 
of his coat, which was already a sort of museum of con- 
secrated relics : half-sheets of notepaper scribbled on by 
Beatrice, pieces of red thread that must have belonged 
to Beatrice, bits of stick which Beatrice had handled and 
cut, and hairpins still fragrant of Beatrice’s dark brown 
hair. 

There was very little wind upon the moor that day, and 
Burrough felt the want of it as he clambered up the steep 
hill from the bog. Progress was necessarily slow because 
the gorse grew thickly there and rocks were everywhere. 
At length he reached a point where the flat summit of 
Cleave Tor could be seen outlined against the intense 
blue of the sky. There was no gracious figure standing 
there, as he had hoped. There was no waving handker- 
chief. But he knew Beatrice was there, and that she had 
seen him ; for while he stood to regain breath a light 
cloud of smoke uprose from the top of the tor and circled 
lazily in the sluggish air. Beatrice was evidently burning 
a small gorse-bush as a signal to him, just as Cornishmen 
of old — and Cornishwomen too — would light fires on 
94 


How They played at Hide-and-Seek. 

Stormy nights to attract ships beating for harbour ; but 
that was an unfortunate comparison, because they were 
wreckers, and the Merry Maiden was no descendant of 
theirs. All the same Burrough was wrecked upon that 
occasion. Breathless and perspiring, he gained the 
summit, to discover the fire a mass of warm grey dust, 
and the inevitable scrap of paper which denoted that 
Beatrice had gone again. 

“ It was the most unfortunate thing,” he read. “ I had 
just settled myself when a pixy jumped out of the heather, 
and shouted, ‘ Ho and away for lunch ! ’ You know when 
a pixy says that you have to go. It was no use my saying 
I expected the man with my washing. This afternoon I 
am thinking of taking my tea to the blacksmith’s, only I 
can’t carry a kettle. Can you suggest any solution of 
that difficulty? If you can I should be prepared to 
discuss the matter seriously. Can’t stop. Blue Peter is 
hoisted. I must dance back to my circle, and be turned 
into stone ; for I am, now as ever, yours most terpsi- 
chorally. 

One of the Nine Maidens.” 


95 


CHAPTER X. 


HOW THEY SAT UPON THE PIXIES’ BOWLING-GREEN. 

Burrough was not going to be made a fool of again. 
Upon that point his mind was perfectly clear. He did not 
intend to pursue the elusive vision of Beatrice across the 
moor and be made the butt of her holiday humour. 
What was the good, he argued, of going to the black- 
smith’s? Probably she would not be there. He might 
only be making himself more ridiculous than ever. His 
course was clear — he must go for a walk in the opposite 
direction. This conclusion having been arrived at, he 
cleaned his little kettle, packed it into a basket, and 
went with quite unnecessary haste towards the 
blacksmith’s. 

The spot selected by Beatrice was hardly as civilised 
as its name suggested. It was nothing but a stone ruin 
beside the river Taw, encircled by solitude and clatters 
of moss-covered granite. According to tradition, a 
blacksmith had lived there once amid the silent shadows 
of the grey rocks, but it was not known what employment 
had come to him in that moorland fastness so far from 
the haunts of men. He could have had neither horse to 
shoe nor implement to forge. Perhaps he was an elfin 
blacksmith, enjoying the royal patronage of the king of 
the pixies, who, as every wise man’s son knew well, held 
court upon Cranmere. There w^as a delightfully smooth 
96 


The Pixies’ Bowling-Green. 

stretch of turf in front of the ruin. His Majesty played 
bowls with his favourite courtiers there “ under the cold 
and chaste light of the moon.” His playthings were big 
spheres of granite. No doubt the blacksmith made 
them, breaking the rough blocks off the tors with his 
iron bar, and shaping them in his forge with chisel and 
hammer. 

Beatrice was there ! She was sitting beside the river 
near the bowling-green, looking very proper and demure. 
She was dressed in white from head to toe, wearing a hat 
to shield her from the sun. It was a big hat, somewhat 
suggestive of a lamp shade, and composed of many 
delicate articles such as infants are swathed in. Her 
little shoes were white, and so were her stockings. 
Burrough had come prepared to be dignified and a 
trifle cold, that she might perceive he was annoyed at 
her late treatment of him ; but one glance caused him to 
forget all that. He felt he would struggle gladly through 
all the bogs of Dartmoor, if at the end of the journey he 
might be allowed to kiss one of those maddening little 
ankles. 

“ Where’s my washing ? ” was Beatrice’s first remark. 

Burrough dived into his pocket and produced the 
handkerchiefs. He had dried them at his kitchen fire. 
He had been tempted to retain one, and to suggest that 
it had been mislaid, but his courage failed him, as it did 
always when the pinch came. So he had folded them 
neatly, and tied them up in tissue paper with a piece of 
pink tape. 

“ You were bathing,” he said, as he gave her the little 
packet. 

“ Sort of bathing,” she admitted. “ The water was 

p.p. 97 H 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

rather cold, and now I’m hoarse. Perhaps the owl over- 
hooted.” 

“ Did you see me ? ” 

“ Lots of times,” she laughed. I saw you coming 
across the moor. I wondered why you were running. I 
saw you wandering from place to place, collecting my 
written injunctions. You nearly caught me on the 
desert island. I had to rush and leave my towels 
behind. And I saw you from the top of Cleave Tor. 
I hope you have profited by your lesson in geography. 
Do you know where Cumberland is now ? ” 

“ Do explain,” he pleaded. 

This was not the reproof which he had prepared ; but 
just then he was in no mood either to argue or to scold. 
He only wanted to hear her talk, to sit still and listen, 
and to watch the movements of her dainty body in its 
soft and silky whiteness. 

“ Have you lived and walked in Blissland all this time 
without discovering that the eyot is a perfect model of 
England ? ” she went on. ‘‘ Why, I saw that when I was 
a small kid. Every part of England and gallant little 
Wales is reproduced in miniature. My sister and I 
added a few details which were wanting. We stuck a 
few mountains about, and we burnt out a patch for the 
Black Country — it’s green again now — and we dug out 
some bays and made some rivers. We learnt all our 
geography that way. You entered the island this morn- 
ing somewhere about Falmouth. The first step landed 
you on Exmoor ; the second took you across the Bristol 
Channel ; and then you came north through Shropshire 
and Cheese-and-catshire ; and I believe you slipped into 
the Mersey, though you didn’t know it, but I thought I 
98 


The Pixies’ Bowling-Green. 

heard you blowing bubbles, also making remarks about 
the mountains in the Lake District which should have 
been instantly suppressed — the remarks, I mean, not the 
mountains. I warned you they were slithery. And then 
you were in Cumberland ; while I had jumped upon the 
Isle of Man, and across to old Ireland, where the bogs 
come from. Then I got stugged again. My washing- 
bill this week will be enormous.” 

‘‘You told me not to tread upon London, or I might 
get bitten,” Burrough said. 

“ I did get bitten,” Beatrice rattled on. “ I went by 
the East End, and two horrid little Socialists nipped me 
on the ankle. Pve done nothing but scratch and embro- 
cate ever since. Didn’t you see that big ant-hill near 
the mouth of the Thames ? That’s London.” 

Then the girl became active. She opened her little 
basket and tumbled out a tea-cloth, various cakes, and 
sundry packets. She ordered Burrough to prepare a fire, 
and demanded to know what he had brought, “because,” 
she said, “ I have eatables, tea and sugar,” with the accent 
upon the sugar, “a bottle of milk, and three cups.” 

“ Why three cups ? ” 

“ Auntie said she might come. I don’t expect she 
will, but she may, if she can finish her painting in time.” 

“I did not know Miss Pentreath painted,” said 
Burrough politely. 

“ We’re both artists,” said Beatrice. “ I paint land- 
scapes, and Auntie paints portraits.” 

He could tell by the mischief in her eyes that she was 
quizzing him ; but not having to his knowledge seen 
Miss Pentreath, he did not know how to take her. 

“ She paints for pleasure. I suppose ? ” he remarked. 

99 H 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

It used to be for profit,” said Beatrice, who had no 
delicacy of feeling regarding her aunt’s obvious weak- 
ness. “ I think now it has become a duty. Like most 
painters. Auntie sets an ideal before her, and aims at it 
with a steadfastness of purpose which in one of her age 
is truly remarkable,” she went on wickedly. “ It has 
always been her object to achieve a real work of art, and 
her failure to do so has cast a gloom upon her life.” 

“ I know you are chaffing me,” said Burrough, looking 
with boldness into her laughing eyes. “ I suppose 
the truth is, your aunt does not take her painting 
seriously.” 

“ It’s about the only thing she does take seriously,” 
Beatrice cried delightedly. She has hitherto failed to 
paint a really good portrait, because she is short-sighted, 
and therefore she exaggerates. What could look worse 
than a blob of scarlet where nature intended a soft and 
interesting pink ? ” 

Evidently I am fated to say the wrong thing,” ob- 
served Burrough. “ As your aunt is a portrait-painter, 
I presume she uses oils ? ” 

“ Ask her,” cried Beatrice, with a little shriek of 
laughter. “I know they come from a place in Bond 
Street in a fancy box, but they don’t smell oily.” 

“ I can’t think of anything else to say except, does she 
exhibit ? ” 

“ Frequently when the weather is fine and dry,” the 
girl replied. “ She objects to rain and mist, because 
moisture is so injurious to the delicate work which she 
particularly affects. She always did prefer to exhibit in 
a half-light, and to keep the picture with its back towards 
the window.” 


100 


The Pixies’ Bowling-Green. 

Then she made the elfin blacksmith’s shop ring with 
laughter, in which Burrough for the first time joined. 

“You must have thought me very dense,” he said. 
“ I have lived so much out of the world lately. I had 
forgotten how ladies repair the ravages made by smoky 
towns with the appliances of art.” 

“ That’s enough of Auntie,” said Beatrice. “ If she 
comes presently she is sure to bring her latest master- 
piece. Only don’t criticise unless she invites you.” She 
went on severely, “ How do you suppose we are going 
to have tea, when the kettle is empty and the fire is not 
made ? Give me the kettle,” she commanded. “ I will 
fill it while you get some sticks and stuff for the fire.” 

She took the kettle, and drawing the white skirts 
round her, went and stood upon a stone, leaning grace- 
fully towards the foaming river. Burrough tried to 
collect sticks and watch her at the same time, with 
the result that he fell over a rock. She laughed, and 
he felt angry, because he did not like to appear clumsy 
in her eyes. There was plenty of dry gorse which had 
been burnt the previous spring. He gathered an armful 
and returned to the pixies’ bowling-green, where Beatrice 
was regarding ruefully her tiny white shoes, over which 
she had been careless enough to spill some water. She 
was also scolding herself sharply. 

“You’m a mucky twoad ! That’s what you be. 
What’s the use of giving you nice things to wear, if you 
can’t keep out of mud and water? Yesterday evening 
you went swaling, and you tore all that pretty lace your 
poor auntie made for you, and you turned a nice little 
pair of tan shoes into pulp, and you muddied your 
stockings to your knees. Then this morning you 
lOI 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

scrambled through that boggy wood and spoilt another 
lot of nice things. And now, when you have dressed 
yourself rather sweetly, you must go and slop a dirty 
kettle all over yourself — you little beast! — ^just like a 
silly kid when nurse isn’t looking. You ought to be 
dressed in sackcloth or linoleum or tarpaulin, which 
would scrape and scratch you. You’m a twoad ! 
You be!” 

“ Aren’t you rather hard upon her ? ” said Burrough, 
looking up from his fire-making. 

“Not a bit. She’s a perfect little horror with her 
clothes. She was always like it. When she was a 
toddler she was always in the mud, and got smacked 
for it, but it made her no better. When she was a 
schoolgirl she was never happy unless she was tearing 
something. And now she’s an old maid, she always pulls 
her things off anyhow when she undresses and chucks 
them all about the floor. What is amusing you now? ” 

“The definition of yourself,” he answered. 

“ Old maid ? Well, I celebrated my fifth birthday two 
years ago. By the time I am ten I shall be old and grey- 
headed. At fifteen I shall become a portrait-painter, and 
at twenty I shall fade peacefully away. I was born, you 
see, on the twenty-ninth of February. Now I’ll tell you 
something more interesting. You see that pile of rocks 
which you are smothering with your smoke ? Well, that’s 
a grave, a kistvaen. There was a very old woman who 
was alive here when I was a kid, and she was a witch. 
Are you listening ? ” 

“Yes,” said Burrough, poking his head out of the 
smoke. “There was an old woman, and she was a 
witch.” 


102 


The Pixies’ Bowling-Green. 

“ She was over ninety,” Beatrice went on. “ And she 
remembered looking in that grave and seeing the skelling- 
ton, as she called it. A real dead Gubbins was buried 
there. There were savages, you know, who if they 
caught anyone on the moor would skin ’em alive-oh. 
The bones have gone long ago. This old woman taught 
me some spells, and I was qualifying rapidly for my 
witch’s degree when the stupid old thing died.” 

“ So you never became a witch after all .? ” 

“ I never became a full-blown black witch.” 

“ Was she a black witch ? ” he asked rather sharply. 

“ Well, yes, she was a black witch,” said Beatrice, 
with some hesitation. She didn’t ride on a broomstick, 
though,” she added with a laugh. “ Why, I thought you 
would be amused at what I am telling you.” 

“ Witchcraft is not an amusing subject,” said Burrough 
quietly. “ When I lived in London I might have laughed 
at it, but not now, not after living alone upon the moor.” 

“Oh well,” said Beatrice, “ let’s talk about something 
else, and forget the nonsense I have been saying.” 

It was not likely that Burrough would forget. He had 
never before seen Beatrice really grave, and the change 
was so great that he could hardly recognise her. He 
knew she did not think she had been talking nonsense, 
and the knowledge made him uncomfortable. It was 
not pleasant to consider that she might have been cor- 
rupted in the age of innocence by some horrible old 
woman who simply lived to hate her species. There 
were a few such remaining, he knew, in mid-Devon and 
about Cornwall, and death by drowning was not too bad 
for them. 

“ Do ye boil, kettle,” pleaded Beatrice, in her usual 
103 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

lively mood, as she poked a stick into the fire. “ Last 
time we had tea together we were devils,” she prattled. 
“ We used the devils’ kitchen. And now we’re pixies. 
This is one of the pixies’ meeting places. They dance 
here in the moonlight, and on a windy night you can 
hear the blacksmith whanging away with his hammer. 
We’re getting on, aren’t we ? We’ll soon be angels. 
Come along with the tea ! The pixy-kettle is bubbling 
and spitting ; and, by all that is lovely and sacred in art, 
here comes my pixy aunt ! ” 

Burrough looked up. He saw a slight girlish figure 
picking its way among the rocks, and advancing towards 
them with mincing steps. At that distance Miss Pentreath 
might have been Beatrice’s younger sister ; but as she 
approached the faults of the picture were exposed piti- 
lessly by the sunlight and clear moorland air. The little 
made-up lady looked entirely out of place amid that wild 
scenery. Surrounded by the granite and gorse, the 
heather and bracken, of Dartmoor, she presented as 
incongruous an appearance, with her paint and girlish 
ribbons, as a fisherman clad in oilskins would have done 
in a West End drawing-room. 

“ Well trotted, Auntie,” cried Beatrice. “ I was afraid 
the journey might be too great for you. This is Mr. 
Burrough, about whom you have heard from Ann. He’s 
the man who writes very big works in a very small house 
where the stormy winds do blow.” 

Miss Pentreath made a fluttering bow, then seated 
herself upon a flat stone, and combed her chestnut locks 
with carefully manicured fingers. She could not see 
Burrough distinctly, owing to her steadfast refusal to 
wear glasses ; but she was aware of a well-built figure 

lO^ 


The Pixies’ Bowling-Green. 

and a fresh clean-shaven countenance which gave her a 
favourable impression. 

“ I am most pleased to meet you,” she said, in her 
little complaining voice. She had been unconsciously 
querulous ever since that unfortunate incident of the 
monkey-cage. ‘ My niece tells me you have escorted 
her about the moor, and have pointed out to her many 
objects of interest which she would not have discovered 
by herself.” 

“ Quite true,” remarked a voice. 

“ I was not aware of it,” muttered Burrough, wishing 
with all his heart that the painted lady was at the bottom 
of Plymouth Sound. 

“ Yes,” said a mischievous voice — “ Skelywidden, 
King Trevalyor's country, and S waling Night.” 

“The air is so soft, so beautiful,” complained Miss 
Pentreath. “ I really think I may venture to remove my 
hat.” 

“ I wouldn’t, Auntie,” warned Beatrice. “ It might 
come on to rain.” 

“Don't say that. I don't see any black clouds about. 
Do you, Mr. Burrough ? ” 

“ Oh, lots,” said Beatrice, with a sly look. “ They are 
black as ink above Steeperton.” 

“ My niece is such a tease,” said Miss Pentreath when 
Burrough had assured her there was no immediate danger 
of a storm. “ I hate rain,” she went on, smiling as archly 
as her enamel would permit. “ It ruins one's clothes 
entirely.” 

“ Not so much as bogs,” said irrepressible Beatrice. 

“ Well, my dear, I am a little older than you, and I 
prefer to keep myself neat. I do not believe in wading 

105 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

through bogs and gorse-bushes, and jumping about 
rocks.’’ 

“ Which is a nasty dig at me,” said Miss Beatrice. 
“But, you see, Auntie, I was born in Leap Year.” 

“Don’t make atrocious puns,” said Miss Pentreath 
severely. “ They are silly and unfashionable.” 

“ My stars ! This propriety is for your benefit, Mr. 
Burrough. If you weren’t here Auntie would want to 
pull off her stockings and paddle.” 

“ I do not deny that my niece and I have paddled in 
this river,” said Miss Pentreath, stirring the cup of tea 
which Burrough had just handed her. “ But I am not 
strong like she is. She would pull me about, and push 
me, until my paddle became something like a bathe. I 
am too small and weak to play with such a strong girl. 
Then the great disadvantage of paddling is the subsequent 
drying of one’s feet, for which a lady’s handkerchief is 
not particularly well adapted.” 

“ I love paddling,’’ said Beatrice. “ I like to feel the 
soft sand tickling my feet and squeezing in between my 
toes.” 

“ Do be quiet, Beatrice,” said her aunt. “ Ladies’ 
toes are not included among the subjects which may 
be discussed at a tea-party where a gentleman is 
present.” 

“Why not, if they’re nice toes? Anyhow I wasn’t 
talking about them. I was only saying how jolly it is to 
walk with bare feet. But if that’s naughty we’ll change 
the subject. Tell us whom you met on your way here.” 

“ Only a few visitors, whose faces were not known to 
me,” replied Miss Pentreath. “ Mr. Yeolandwas standing 
as usual at his gate, and tried to get me to stop and talk. 
io6 


The Pixies’ Bowling-Green. 

The poor old gentleman wants looking after sadly. Then 
I passed a few of the villagers ” 

“ ril give you a list of them,” Beatrice broke in : 
“Willum, who won’t work, and Dufty, who can’t look 
straight ; Griffey, who preaches, and Veale, who boozes ; 
Muzzlewhite, who can’t read, and Kentisbeer, who can’t 
write ; Kellaway, with the wall-eye, and Wollacott, with 
the game leg ; old Ruddle, who’s never been in a train, 
and old Wannell, who’s never been in a bath. Auntie 
talks to everyone and everything,” she went on, addressing 
Burrough, who had become unusually silent. “She 
speaks to every dog and cat in the place. One day I 
heard her talking to a pony about the weather.” 

“ Never mind my weaknesses,” said Miss Pentreath, 
as she produced her cigarette case. “ Mr. Burrough, are 
you certain it is not going to rain ? I am a very long 
way from shelter.” 

“ There’s the blacksmith’s chimney,” Beatrice reminded 
her. 

“ It is quite clear towards Cranmere — where the storms 
come from,” Burrough answered. 

“ Have you ever been to Cranmere ?” asked a voice. 

“ I started one morning, but lost my way, and gave it 
up,” he said. 

“ 1 know the way.” 

“ Beatrice knows Cranmere well,” her aunt remarked. 
“ She has been there every summer since she was a 
child.” 

“ Next time you go will you let me accompany you ? ” 
Burrough asked, avoiding her eyes, and feeling his heart 
beating rapidly. 

“You would have to start early,” he heard Miss 
107 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Pentreath saying, “some day when the artillery are 
not firing.” 

So far Beatrice had not given her consent. She was 
lying upon the pixies’ bowling-green, her chin propped 
upon her hand, and her eyes fixed upon the foaming 
river. An expedition to Cranmere was a very different 
matter from an afternoon’s ramble in Blissland. He and 
she would be alone together for the day. Nothing but a 
vast solitude would surround them from morning till 
night. And Cranmere Pool was the centre of witchcraft 
and pixy pranks. 

Suddenly Beatrice turned her head. 

“ We shall want lots of grub,” she said in her merry 
way. “ And you must bring plenty to drink, for I won’t 
follow the example of the Cornish Princess in your fairy 
story and swallow mud and slime. The guns won’t be 
firing next Monday. Shall we go then ? ” 


io8 


CHAPTER XI. 


HOW THE SCHOLAR FAILED IN ORIENTAL LANGUAGES. 

It was high noon, and the day was the first of the week. 
Willum Cobbled ick walked out of the church and into the 
Plume of Feathers.” He was wearing an old cassock, 
short in front and dragging behind, like a maid-of-all- 
work’s frock ; and upon his bristling hair rested at a 
military angle a distinctly clerical hat. Willum always 
exchanged church for alehouse at the earliest oppor- 
tunity, not so much because sawdust and beer-barrels 
were preferable to harmonium and lectern as because 
in the “ Plume of Feathers ” he could feel himself an 
instructor of the villagers who were wont to foregather 
there as often as the law allowed. Willum was a church- 
warden. He was also organist, bell-ringer in modera- 
tion, and sexton. He collected the offertory and read 
the lessons. He intoned the psalms and sang the hymns. 
He was in effect the spiritual pastor and master of the 
village, as the vicar was too infirm and witless to per- 
form his duty, and had almost lost the faculty of intelligent 
speech. Everybody who came to Lew went to hear 
Willum read the lessons. He rendered them in broad 
dialect, disregarding stops, gasping for breath in the 
middle of a word, sometimes turning over two pages and 
reading on unconscious of his error ; while Mrs. Cobble- 
dick listened with tearful pride and would have applauded 
109 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

had she dared. Service over, Willum would hurry to the 
“ Plume of Feathers ” for his well-earned beer. His fellow- 
villagers patronised the local Zion, which offered no 
attraction in the morning, nor indeed at any time when 
the house of good cheer was open. They recognised 
Willum as a superior. He was the local representative 
of learning. When an election was impending it was 
Willum who controlled the votes. When the rural dean 
made his visitation it was Willum who appeared armed 
with registers and misstatements. Willum be the 
sinecure of all eyes,” Mrs. Cobbledick frequently 
explained to newly- arrived visitors. 

Griffey, the preacher, sat on a bench, clutching a blue 
and white mug. Upon the table by his side sat his 
favourite disciple, Wollacott of the game leg, who was too 
miserly to buy refreshments for himself, and so far had 
not been offered any. Other worthies lounged in 
picturesque attitudes about the room. They were 
listening to Griffey, who had been discoursing upon the 
uncertainty of life, and the necessity of doing good to 
one’s neighbours. As the preacher confined his atten- 
tions to his neighbours by removing the boundary stone 
of one and diverting the water supply of another, his 
remarks were not received with that attention which the 
subject deserved. 

‘‘Us be like sparrows,” Griffey shouted as Willum 
entered. 

“Like what?” asked old Wannell, who had never 
been in a bath, and was, on that account perhaps, some- 
what hard of hearing. 

“ Like sparrows,” Griffey repeated. 

“ Us be,” agreed old Wannell, looking round to see if 
no 


How the Scholar failed. 


anyone was prepared to deny it, “like sparrows that 
sitteth alone on the house-top, and withereth afore they 
be plucked up/’ 

“ That ain’t it at all,” broke in the amateur divine. 
“ ’Tis grass what withers. Sparrows fall to the ground.” 

“ And the Lord careth for ’en,” said the preacher, as 
he lowered his head reverently over his mug. 

“ Beautiful the beer smells,” said Wollacott of the 
game leg. 

“ It’s a wonder to me where you gets the learning 
from,” said Kellaway the wall-eyed. 

“ Ah ! ” said Willum profoundly, as he produced two 
books and a pipe from the pocket of his cassock. 

“ You don’t get it from your father,” observed ojd 
Ruddle, who had never been in a train. 

“ I never got it from he,” Willum agreed. 

“You can’t account for learning,” said Dufty, who 
couldn’t look straight. 

“ It grows,” said Eastaway, the publican. “ It’s just 
like warts ; some have ’em, some don’t.” 

“ It don’t grow unless you helps it a lot,” said Willum 
modestly. 

“ I says reading’s a waste o’ time ; that’s what I says,” 
commented Muzzlewhite, who had failed to master the 
accomplishment. 

“ So be writing,” added Kentisbeer, whose talent in that 
direction was equally undeveloped. 

“ Them be half-dafty notions,” said Willum. 

Griffey, the preacher, opened his mouth to agree ; but 
remembering suddenly that it was against his principles 
to agree with anyone, closed it again. 

At this point Veale, the village toper, who had for 

III 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

some time felt sleep approaching, composed himself for 
a quiet nap beneath the trestle-table. 

“ What be they books, Willum ? Full o’ learning, I 
reckon ? ” said the publican. 

This was the moment for which the scholar had been 
waiting. He had held the books ostentatiously, confident 
that such a question would be asked before long. As a 
matter of fact, it was the publican that he desired 
particularly to impress. Eastaway was the financial 
magnate of Lew. He w'as the village banker. He was 
also keeper of the Cobbledick tombstone. Eastaway was 
practically the only employer of labour in the neighbour- 
hood apart from the mines, where work was precarious, 
and received poor pay. By a stroke of genius worthy of 
a higher intellect, he had combined the business of 
granite merchant with that of beer-seller. He held the 
only licence in the village. His stoneyard was not a 
dozen yards away from the door which had painted upon 
it the laconic announcement “Bar.” While the men 
worked in the hot sun they could see the seductive 
interior, and smell the aroma of malt and hops, which, 
as old Veale had pathetically observed, made the place 
“ so homelike.” Eastaway paid his men each Saturday 
at noon. During the week the greater part of his money 
came back to him through that process, which might have 
been described as an effect of machinery upon wages. 

Willum opened the Greek Testament tenderly, and 
after gazing at the pages with a rapt expression, passed 
the book upside down into the rough and beery hands of 
the publican. The scholar’s face shone with idiocy, 
which the spectators mistook for wisdom, as he laconically 
and lyingly remarked, “ Fifteen pounds ! ” 

II2 


How the Scholar failed. 


“ Be a lot of money for a book ; such a little ’un, too,” 
remarked the gentleman of the game leg. 

Mun have cost a lot to print ’en,” said Easlaway. 
“ Do all they little things mean English words, Willum ? ” 
he went on incredulously. 

“ You turns ’em into English words — us do as knows 
how,” the scholar answered. 

What be ’en ? ” the preacher demanded. 

“ Chinese,” said Willum. “ Chinese Bible.” 

“ Show us the bit about the sparrows,” said the 
preacher. 

Catching a familiar word, the village toper beneath the 
table began to murmur a little ditty concerning a bird of 
that species, which sat upon a spout while a thunder- 
storm was impending. 

“ There be nought about sparrows here. They don’t 
have none in China,” Willum explained. 

Old Veale proceeded to show how the storm broke, 
and forcibly expelled the sparrow from its coign of 
vantage. 

“ Then it bain’t a Bible,” said Griffey triumphantly. 

“ You gurt fool,” cried Willum, in anger at such 
stupidity. “ Didn’t I tell ye ’twas Chinese ? ” 

“ What they chaps read as be slaves in Africa, where 
my cousin Bill Conybeare died o’ fever fighting wi’ the 
Boers,” explained Kellaway, the wall-eyed. 

“ They bain’t slaves,” shouted Willum, hotly. “ It be 
a wicked lie. They works for their living same as us.” 

“ Order, please,” shouted Eastaway. “ No politics 
here. What be t’other book, Willum ? ” 

The scholar resumed his bland smile, as he handed 
over the torn and shabby Sanskrit dictionary, upon 

p.p. 113 I 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

which he commented thus : Only two others like it. 
One of ’em in the British Museum to Oxford, Mr. 
Burrough told me, and t’other be lost somewhere.” 

“ Be it Chinese too asked the gentleman who 
couldn’t read. 

Willum replied in the affirmative, while Veale beneath 
the table murmured his joyous conviction that Chinamen 
never would be slaves. Probably he meant Britons, but 
the conversation had confused him. 

“ One of these books tells ye about t’other,” the scholar 
announced. 

‘'Which tells ye about what?” asked Eastaway, 
blankly. 

This question muddled Willum. After some hesita- 
tion he explained that when in doubt as to a word in the 
dictionary it was necessary to turn to the Testament for 
enlightenment. The publican, who was a practical 
man, requested Willum to translate a passage into fluent 
English. It was then the scholar discovered he had 
floundered ; but a little sleight of hand, which resulted in 
a sort of reshuffling of the books, glossed over his error. 
Then relying upon memory and impudence, he pointed 
to a passage, and quoted a sentence which had occurred 
in the first lesson that morning. 

“ Ain’t nothing like that in our Bible,” said Eastaway 
decidedly. 

“ Well, I dunno,” said Griffey the preacher. “ Seems 
somehow familiar.” 

Willum considered that his scholarly reputation would 
be enhanced by remaining silent. 

“ Where did ye get they books from ? ” asked the 
publican. 


How the Scholar failed. 


Willum became at once mysterious. Under pressure 
he told a rambling tale of an old house in Cornwall, 
which had been long deserted and was gradually falling 
into decay. At length it was decided to pull it down, 
and the books were discovered in a box bricked up in a 
chimney. The gentleman into whose hands they came 
had sent them to him, Willum, for his opinion. 

“How did ye know they was Chinese.?” interrupted 
wall-eyed Kellaway, who mistrusted Willum. 

“ What’s the use of being a scholar if ye can’t find out 
things .? ” retorted Willum. 

“ That bain’t no answer,” replied the wall-eyed gentle- 
man. “ What be the signs and tokens ? ” 

“ What be the signs and tokens that the sun be 
shining .? ” shouted Willum. 

“ I can see ’en,” replied Kellaway. 

“ I can see them books be Chinese,” came the answer, 
which everybody present considered decidedly crushing. 

“ ’Tis easy to see you be no scholar, Joe,” said 
Muzzlewhite, who was himself no better. 

“ What I wants to know is how he got they books,” 
went on Kellaway. “ If they were worth a lot of money 
how did the gentleman come to part wi’ ’em ? ” 

“ I bought ’em,” said Willum. “ The gentleman 
didn’t know how valuable they was, and I wasn’t fool 
enough to tell ’en. I offered ’en a fair price, and he 
took it, and I kept the books.” 

“ Same way as I sold they sick ponies,” muttered the 
preacher thoughtfully. 

Wall-eyed Kellaway gave way grumbling. To ask 
how Willum came by the money was too delicate a ques- 
tion. It was common knowledge that his efforts to 
115 I 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

obtain control over the offertory had failed. The vicar 
might be a dotard, but he had sense enough to retain 
the bag. Willum was fond of referring to sums which 
he lavished upon various articles ; and somehow or other 
the villagers had fallen into the habit of believing him. 

“ Seems to me you might pay for that tombstone next 
time you has a few shilluns handy,” Eastaway remarked 
blandly. 

“That be mother’s business, not mine,” Willum 
retorted. He had the feeling that he was being baited, 
and he did not like it. “ Mother ordered ’en, and mother 
must pay for ’en. ’Tis to go above she and father, and 
it can bide till she be dead.” 

“Be ye going to drink that beer?” said Wollacott 
suggestively. 

“ I be,” replied the scholar, hastily guarding his mug 
with two huge hands. 

“ It bain’t right to let your father lie wi’out a stoane at 
his head,” said old Ruddle, whose travelling had been 
confined to horse-drawn vehicles. “ He was a good man. 
Hit I on the face one ’lection time. Us was proud o’ he.” 

“ He warn’t a scholar same as Willum,” said Eastaway, 
who was hoping to get an offer for the tombstone. 

“ Could use his hands,” said Ruddle. 

“ Willum uses his brains,” said the publican. 

“Us don’t want brains. Us can live wi’out ’em,” said 
wall-eyed Kellaway, returning to the attack. “You 
can’t cut peat and crack stones wi’ brains. ’Tis only men 
what don’t work as wants brains to tell ’em how to pass 
the time. Us knows what to du for a living, and us 
don’t want to be bothered wi’ brains.” 

This was a distinct challenge to Willum. He could 
ii6 


How the Scholar failed. 


not disregard it without a distinct loss of reputation. He 
drained his mug, wiped his sandy moustache, and with a 
look of malevolence in his foxy eyes advanced to the 
centre of the room, faced his opponent, and was just 
about to commence a denunciation when an interruption 
occurred. The door opened noisily, and a couple of 
artillery officers entered. 

The villagers became as silent as mice. Military 
visitations from the artillery camp on the moor were 
frequent : but it was not often that officers deigned to 
enter the little alehouse. As they walked to the counter, 
after a curt “ good-morning ” to the men, a few well-aimed 
kicks in the ribs fully aroused old Veale, who becoming 
conscious of uniforms shambled from beneath the table 
and, bespattered with sawdust, lurched for the door. 
Tumbling down the steps, he cuffed the urchins who 
were holding the officers’ horses, and drove them off 
blubbering with disappointment. Horse-holding for 
officers was a salaried position held for life by the toper. 
It was a monopoly enjoyed by him. The salary came 
from tips. No gentleman in uniform ever gave less than 
sixpence. Old Veale managed to pass the curb-reins 
round his arm, then supporting himself between the 
horses resumed the blameless slumbers which had been 
so rudely interrupted. 

While the publican was producing the bottled ale, 
which he assured his aristocratic visitors was stocked 
especially for their benefit, the officers could not fail to 
perceive the books, left incautiously by Willum, lying 
open upon the counter. The younger of the two exclaimed 
at once — 

“I say ! Here’s a thing to pitch upon in a Dartmoor 
117 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

pub ! Look here ! this will remind you of your time in 
India.” 

“A Sanskrit dictionary, by Jove!” said the other. 
“ And what’s this ? A Greek Testament. Landlord! is 
this the sort of reading you indulge in ?” 

“ Well, Captain, us don’t read ’em,” replied Eastaway. 
“ But Willum does. He be a scholar. There be Willum.” 
He nodded blandly towards the object in the clerical 
hat and disreputable cassock, while the officers exchanged 
smiles. 

“ So, my man, you read Greek and Sanskrit ? ” said 
the senior officer. 

Beg pardon. Captain,” broke in Kellaway, with an 
exultant grin. Willum says they be Chinese Bibles.” 

At that moment Willum, who still occupied the centre 
of the floor, looked as though he were experiencing that 
sensation in the palate and throat which is a premonitory 
symptom of nausea. 

I dare say it’s Chinese to him,” said the officer, with 
a good-humoured smile. “ This book is the New 
Testament in Greek. And this is a Sanskrit dictionary. 
Sanskrit, as Willum may have told you, is the early 
language of India.” 

“ Willum never told us that,” said Kellaway. 

“ What would they books be worth, sir ? ” added the 
wall-eyed one, as Eastaway with a most deferential 
manner and obsequious smile set two foam-topped glasses 
before his patrons. 

Willum made a remark about mother waiting dinner 
for him. 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked the officer as he lifted 
his glass. 

ii8 


How the Scholar failed. 


“ The chap has been fooling them,” the other muttered 
with a soft laugh. 

What would they be worth to buy ? A lot of money, 
I s’pose, sir ? ” 

“Lord no! They are old second-hand affairs. I 
suppose you picked them up at some bookstall for a few 
coppers ? ” said the officer, turning to the scholar. 

“I bought them of a gentleman. Captain,” said 
Willum brazenly. 

“ And he had you ! ” 

The two officers burst out laughing, and the one who 
had last spoken picked up the books and handed them 
to Willum, who was already preparing an indictment 
upon the ignorance of army-officers in general, and these 
two in particular, to be delivered as soon as they had 
departed. 

Kellaway had still another question ; and he lost no 
time in putting it. 

“ Would one o’ they books, sir, help ye to read the 
other ? ” 

“ Of course not,” came the answer. “ They are two 
different languages.” 

“ Willum,” said the younger officer solemnly, “ go 
home, my lad, and stick to halfpenny newspapers in the 
future.” 

They laughed again, then paid their reckoning, and 
clattered outside to find fresh amusement in the somnolent 
horse-holder; but so soon as they had ridden away 
Willum lifted up his voice in denunciation and exclaimed, 

“ They be nice men to be officers in the British Army. 
They don’t know Chinese when they sees it.” 

The villagers laughed somewhat in scorn, and 
119 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

wall-eyed Kellaway laughed louder than the others. The 
majority were unwilling to believe that Willum was a 
fraud and a delusion, Willum was in his way an institu- 
tion ; someone they could be proud of, whom they could 
point out to visitors. But their faith in his wisdom had 
been seriously disturbed by the words of the officers. 

“ They be gurt fools and gurt liars,” thundered 
Willum. 

“ Why didn’t ye tell ’em so ? ” sneered Kellaway, 


120 


CHAPTER XII. 


HOW THEY STARTED FOR THE MOTHER OF RIVERS. 

Beatrice had promised to meet Burrough at the moor 
gate on Monday morning, that they might start for 
Cranmere. The weather was gloriously fine. There 
was scarcely any breeze. A better morning could not 
have fallen to their lot. Burrough felt curiously elate 
while he made his preparations for wandering into the 
wilderness. He talked all the time to the lineal 
descendant of the great Grimalkin, who occupies the 
same position among the feline race of the West Country 
as is held by King Arthur in the minds of men. 

“ This is a great day. King o’ the Cats. A day to be 
noted by red letters and marked with a white stone. I’m 
going a roaming across rivers and rocks, through bogs 
and quags ; and she is coming too. The Queen of 
Trevalyor is coming, Peterkin. She likes me a little — 
she must, or she wouldn’t be alone with me all day. I’m 
not too old after all. What’s thirty-five when you feel 
strong and well, and look it too ? I’m young, my brindled 
monarch. I’m still a boy. No wrinkles yet, no grey 
hairs. I am not yet old enough to make my own living. 
If that is not a sign of infancy, what is ? Out of the way, 
or I shall tread upon your royal tail. It pleases us to be 
merry to-day, for we have issued our decree commanding 
our loving subjects to make holiday. Don’t you hear the 
I2I 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

pixies scampering up and down the gorge ? They are 
crying as loud as they can, ‘ Ho and away for Cranmere 
Pool.’ ” 

Peter jerked his tail and stalked outside, perhaps 
considering that, if there were any basis of truth for this 
statement, a plump pixy w^ould make a pleasant change 
of diet. Burrough stuffed his knapsack with provisions for 
the journey, and hurried outside to find his ashplant 
which was to serve him for alpenstock. 

Burrough’s private idea was that the great plateau, 
which Beatrice and he proposed reaching that day, was 
not strictly speaking in England at all, because Dartmoor 
had neither been conquered nor legally annexed. The 
inhabitants had a perfect right to raise the flag of a 
republic and proclaim Dartmoor as a sort of English 
San Marino. Dartmoor was still Little Britain. Although 
it was attacked often by the Saxons it remained impreg- 
nable. The Celtic inhabitants of the moor retained their 
language until near the dawn of modern England, until 
long after the county which surrounded it had been 
incorporated within the western realm. As an indepen- 
dent and unconquered state it passed into the jurisdiction 
of the Duchy of Cornwall, although the Duchy obtained no 
legal title to it. Legally Dartmoor was not in Devon- 
shire ; politically it was not in England. If an adventurer 
were to seize the moor, and proclaim himself First 
Emperor, none except the commoners would have a 
legal right to evict him. 

Once upon a time Dartmoor was an immense mountain 
of granite. The ladies and gentlemen of that period 
probably wore hair and tails, and had not progressed far 
enough to talk scandal or to be troubled by politics. 

122 


The Mother of Rivers. 


That mountain is now ruined. Nothing but the stump 
remains. It has been worn away by the winds and rain 
of ages. It may have taken a hundred years to wear 
away a few grains of that tough granite which still cannot 
be cut by any tool. Frost, storm, and showers wore 
that huge mountain away. The softer portions went 
first, and the rivers following the line of least resistance 
cut and scraped and hollowed as they ran unceasingly, 
until the defiles, cleaves, and gorges were made, to be a 
delight to quite a new race of beings, who had abandoned 
the fashion of wearing tails, and instead of hair cumbered 
their bodies with a vast amount of superfluous clothing. 
The harder portions naturally resisted the action of the 
elements longer, and they appear now as the hills and 
ranges of the moor, capped each one by unusually tough 
masses of granite which are called tors. Some of these 
masses look as if they had been built by some Permian 
or Damnonian corvee ; others take upon themselves the 
shapes of giants or monstrous beasts; others in pure 
playfulness will log or rock upon persuasion. 

Where one would expect to find hills there is only a 
plateau. The big hills are upon the borders of the moor; 
the central part is a more or less flat-topped surface, 
broken by small hillocks having each its distinctive tor, 
named usually after the form it is supposed to represent. 
Between stretch the peat bogs, springy in summer, 
spongy in winter. The peat when cut in its dry state is 
as soft and lovely a brown as a woman’s hair. Here the 
shaggy cattle wander, the wild ponies frisk, and the 
horned sheep browse. The wildness is extreme, the 
solitude intense. There are no trees upon the moor, 
nothing but the stone clatters, the bogs and rivers, the 
123 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

heather, whortleberry, and gorse. The greater gorse 
blooms during winter and spring ; the smaller species 
flowers in summer and autumn ; thus all the year round 
the fairies’ gold is lying upon the moor. 

It is the rivers which are the pride and glory of the 
little republic of Dartmoor. Broadly it may be said 
that all have their origin upon the most inaccessible, the 
loneliest, most solemn and dreary, and the highest of all 
Dartmoor plateaus — the Mother of Rivers, Cranmere. 
Dart and Teign are the fairest rivers in the world. To 
walk by the Teign in the bluebell season is to be in fairy- 
land. To trace the windings of the Dart is to become 
the central figure of a dream. There is also the Oke- 
ment, river of ferns — it was this which flowed through 
Beatrice’s Blissland — and the noisy river Taw ; and many 
another, with rattling brooks innumerable, all streaming 
from the breasts of Mother Cranmere to irrigate the 
green valleys of Devon, which was once a part of heaven, 
but broke off one day and fell to earth. 

These rivers of Dartmoor have a beauty and romance 
all their own, as they dash their cold, sweet water to the 
western towns, where England’s commercial prosperity 
was built up, and whence her sailors pushed away to 
conquer Spain. There is one beauty of the Alps, and 
another of English hills ; one beauty of the Rhine, and 
another of the Dart. Nothing is big, and nothing little, 
when referred to its proper scale. Cramping smallness 
is usually more lovely, if less sublime, than oppressive 
largeness. The crystal rivers of the moor run down 
between brown banks of peat decked with ferns and 
asphodel. Here they flow into wizard pools ; there they 
thrill from one rocky ledge to another in a succession of 
124 


The Mother of Rivers, 


sparkling stickles or little falls. They are always bright, 
always laughing, and possess a wondrous freshness. 
Sometimes these rivers forget they have risen upon Cran- 
mere, and are destined to flow through merely terrestrial 
scenes. They revert sometimes to their former state, 
when Devon was a part of the heavenly country ; or they 
lose their way, as it were, to find themselves, somewhere 
about the month of May, passing through some land that 
never was. Thus one reach of the Tavy passes through 
Arcady; one reach of the Teign through fairyland ; one 
reach of the Dart through dreamland. And the dreams 
of that land are good ! ^ 

Not many legends of the wild Cymric imagination 
remain. Arthurian legend has become forgotten. 
Board-schools have killed the pixies. Only the more 
vulgar fancies remain. One of them is connected with 
the Dart, which was originally not so much a river bring- 
ing water to the people as a god who demanded tribute 
from them. That tribute was a human heart each year — 
one year the heart of a maid, the next that of a man, and 
so on for ever. 

In the vast and wild solitude of the moor it is curious 
to consider that here was once the Birmingham of Eng- 
land. Beside the rivers appear grass-grown mounds 
which betray the former working places of the tin- 
streamers. Here and there may be seen the ruins of 
their huts and homes. Their bridges across the rivers — 
huge slabs of granite known as clappers — are in use to- 
day probably in very much the same condition as they 
were a thousand years ago. During the Bronze Age the 
demand for tin was about equal to the present demand for 
steel, and the tin of “ Dertymore ” was famous before the 

125 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Roman empire had declined. Upon Crockern Tor, an 
equal distance from the Stannary Towns, the Tinners’ 
Parliament was held in the open air. Offenders against 
its laws were sentenced to death and torture in its horrible 
dungeon of Lydford, more foul a prison than any devised 
by the intelligence and cruelty of the Spanish Inquisitors. 

Cranmere is the practical summing-up of all that is 
wild and weird upon Dartmoor, and of all that is lonely 
and drear. It is a great watershed up among the clouds, 
the roof, as it were, of the moor. The so-called Pool in 
its centre may be reached by any active pedestrian during 
the summer months on those days when the gunners of 
the British artillery are not sending their shells across its 
boggy surface. In winter it is practically inaccessible 
alike to man and beast. There is danger then. Wool- 
like mists may encircle the wanderer suddenly, or the 
driving snowstorm spring up. 

In every part the peaty soil has been rent into fissures. 
These crevasses present the most striking feature of the 
region. They are innumerable, and some are deep, 
while all are treacherous. The traveller jumps one to 
find himself balancing insecurely upon the brink of 
another in every respect identical with that he has just 
crossed. Their angular crookedness is amazing. They 
curve and zigzag into all manner of snaky shapes. Their 
crumbling edges are often hidden by tufts of bleached 
grass or knotted heather, and a false step may mean a 
sudden descent into slime and mud. One would imagine 
that the entire region had been tortured by earthquake, 
or that some Titan had fallen in frenzy upon the plateau 
and rent it with his hands and teeth. 

Each of these crevasses is, in its humble May, a 
126 


The Mother of Rivers. 


water-course. Each is a vein which does its part in the 
great act of river-making. During the summer months 
the mud with which they are choked is of a glue-like con- 
sistency. As autumn approaches the mass loosens and 
becomes oil-like, until in winter the mud vanishes and 
water begins to flow. Rivers have humble origins ; they 
are not born great, but they have greatness thrust upon 
them. The source of any particular river can hardly be 
discovered. It is merely a muddy crevasse amid a 
hundred others. But the hundred are destined finally to 
feed the one, until the river casts its slough and appears 
fresh. 

While the maze is penetrated, by means of jumps and 
scrambles, there are pools — small ragged patches of 
black and sullen water fringed by cotton-grass and 
bleached sedges. The water is so thick that the wind 
hardly ruffles it. Probably these pools are crowded with 
invisible insect life, but to the eye they might be poison- 
pits, so dead are they and so black. One cannot wonder 
if the Celtic moormen should have peopled this desolate 
region of crevasse and tarn with the souls of sinners. 
Here was once the site of purgatory. There was a time 
when the West-Welsh inhabitants of Dartmoor feared to 
climb upon the great plateau because of the piteous cries 
issuing from the crevasses. Nothing could be more 
suggestive of souls in agony than the groaning of the 
wind across Cranmere. With the sun “ sinking in its 
roaring home,” with the wind sounding like grated doors 
heavily creaking, and the dripping clouds of mist around ; 
with the fissures and the tarns below, the desolate peat- 
wastes, the deep black sheets of mud ; with the solitude 
and lifelessness on every side, the imaginative Celt might 
127 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

well have hastened to find an easier way by which to 
escape from that haunted region to his home. 

In the centre of this saturated waste was once a pool 
of some size. There are moormen who remember the 
sedge- choked sheet of black water. It was surrounded 
by beds of rushes. The rushes have gone, and the pool 
which nurtured them has gone too, drained by the turve- 
cutters. The finest peat in the world is cut upon the edge 
of Cranmere. What was the Pool is now an almost oval 
depression in the surface. The spongy bank of peat 
slopes gradually, and a cairn appears made of turves and 
marble-like stones, and topped by a sad post, to which 
from time to time a flag has been fastened, only to be 
torn to fragments and utterly demolished by the furious 
winter gales. Two tin boxes are pushed into a hole at 
the side of the cairn. The one contains a book to 
receive names and addresses of visitors who succeed in 
conquering Cranmere : the other is a post-box. They 
who reach the Pool leave letters and postcards to various 
friends and relations. The next arrival takes these mis- 
sives, and upon returning to civilisation posts them 
without delay. Letters posted at Cranmere do not often 
miscarry, even though they may not reach their destina- 
tion until many months later. 

There is little to be seen upon Cranmere. Nature is 
naked and unrelieved. She is cold, hard and fierce. 
She is there not the Nature which smiles and is kind. 
She is the Nature which is exceedingly cruel. All the 
epithets usually applied to tragedy may be applied to 
Cranmere. Yet peace, and not sorrow, is the dominant 
note. On a calm day — and there are few perfectly calm 
at so great an altitude — the stillness is weird. It is 
128 


The Mother of Rivers. 


unnatural. Perhaps there is not a region in all the world 
more silent than Cranmere. There is no life ; all around 
there is death. But by one of Nature’s little ironies, 
Cranmere is the centre of life and the source of it. For 
she is the mother of nearly all the rivers in Devon. 

Burrough had not long to wait beside the moor gate, 
for Beatrice was punctual. He went forward to meet 
her as she tripped along, fresh and sparkling like a part 
of the morning. She was attired like the practical 
Cornish girl she could be when she liked. She wore a 
short grey skirt which did not reach her ankles, and a 
tight-fitting jersey of white wool, over which was slung a 
little satchel, which she declared contained everything 
that could possibly be required for the expedition from a 
packet of pins to a white elephant. Her little feet were 
shod with two absurd miniatures of men’s Dartmoor 
boots — thick-soled and hob-nailed. Her head was un- 
covered, and so were her hands. 

“ Since it’s necessary to commence with the weather,’* 
she cried, “ what a day ! ” 

Ready to start ? ” asked Burrough. 

“ Ay, ready,” cried Beatrice. 

The moor gate banged behind, and they were off. 

“ It’s up, everlasting up,” she said. “ It’s drag, climb, 
and jump, henceforth and for ever, and we mustn’t talk 
too much. I’ll tell you why,” she rattled on, anxious to 
ignore her own advice. “ Once I made this trip alone. 
I hope you’re impressed. I went to Cranmere alone, 
and I wondered why I was so little tired when I got 
back. It was because I had no talking or laughing to do. 
Talking and laughing are very exhausting.” 

“We cannot walk like mutes,” he objected. 

p.p. 129 


K 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“The thing is difficult, but not impossible. We 
might make signs. Point, gesticulate, raise our eye- 
brows, shrug our shoulders. Do you know the deaf and 
dumb alphabet ? But that wouldn’t do. It’s eyes on 
your feet hereabouts, or great is the fall. Now this is a 
breathless bit. We won’t talk for ten minutes.” 

She compressed her lips firmly and looked down. 
They began to ascend, winding among the big blocks 
of granite. Beatrice kept glancing up with a smile, and 
a saucy gesture apropos of nothing. Presently she 
pointed at the sun, then patted her hair. Burrough 
nodded, and wiped his forehead, tacitly acknowledging 
the heat. Beatrice with difficulty restrained a titter. 
Then Burrough held up one finger and shook his head 
sadly. Beatrice nodded with equal gravity, and Bur- 
rough held up two fingers, looking pleased and happy. 
The girl nodded again, although she was entirely be- 
wildered, and immediately held up three pink fingers, 
which looked almost transparent in that clear light. 
Burrough shook his head quite savagely. 

“ I must speak, or I shall burst,” cried Beatrice. 
“ What ever do you mean ? ” 

“ When I held up one finger, I meant to signify that 
during my previous walks here I have been alone,” he 
answered. “ Then I held up two, to show how glad 
I was to have you for a companion ; and when you held 
up three, I took it that you meant there should be some- 
one else with us.” 

“ That was much too deep for me,” said Beatrice. “ I 
put up three fingers just to beat your two. I couldn’t 
imagine what you were driving at. So you thought I 
meant you ought to have a chaperon ? ” 

130 


The Mother of Rivers. 


He laughed at her wilful perversion, while she with a 
quick glance went on, “ We open-air Cornish girls can 
look after ourselves. We are not hot-house plants by 
any manner of means. You’re an open-air person, 
aren’t you .? ” 

“ Altogether,” Burrough answered, “ through 
necessity, not from choice.” 

“ But you are all right now .? ” Beatrice suggested 
quickly. 

“ Quite well, so long as I am here,” he said. 

“ I’ve been always awfully strong,” Beatrice went on. 

At home my bedroom looks out upon the sea. I have 
the window open winter and summer, in storm and fine 
weather, and my bed is close beside it. I won’t have 
blind or curtains. I like to feel the salt breeze on my 
face. I can lie and watch the moon rising out of the sea, 
or the lightning flashing upon it, and I can watch the 
fishing boats sailing by. Sometimes I get my pillows 
soaked with rain, or the spray which dashes over the 
cliff. And after a stormy night my bed is in such a 
mess. Dry leaves and dust, and bits of stick, and my 
hair is simply filled with wreckage. Beetles and moths 
and bats come to visit me, and more than once a bird 
has been flung in by the wind. I get up in the morning 
feeling that I must dance and sing.” 

“ It’s the way to keep young and live long,” said 
Burrough, in his pedantic manner. 

“ Of course it is. These commoners of Dartmoor 
could live as long as they liked if they were not such 
fools. They sleep four or five in one small room with 
every chink sealed up even in summer. They pass the 
night undoing the good that the day has done. Nearly 
131 K 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

everyone on the moor goes off between seventy and 
eighty. They break up suddenly and go off, worn out 
by want of night air. Our fisher-folk in Cornwall are 
just the same. It’s no good talking to them. I’ve tried 
lots of times. ‘ Sleep with my window open ! Why, 
twould kill me,’ is what they say. One old woman sang 
quite a different song when I tackled her on the subject. 
‘ Us don’t want to bide over a hundred years,’ she said. 
" Us can’t afford it. Us bides too long as ’tis.’ 
You can’t argue against that,” finished Beatrice with a 
laugh. 

“ We’re on our way back to wigwams and hut circles,” 
suggested Burrough. 

“Yes,” she laughed. “The house agent’s advertise- 
ment in the future will be something like this : ‘ A 
charming modern residence for sale. Contains four 
large stones, carefully propped up and leaning securely 
against one another; an admirable hearthstone, and 
roofed most artistically with rushes. A perpetual current 
of cold east wind guaranteed. Pretty but inexpensive.’ 
And here’s another from the same list : * A few hurdles 
and a piece of sailcloth to be had cheap. Could be con- 
verted into a nice suburban villa.’ ” 

“ How were you brought up ? ” Burrough asked. 

“ Why, in the most sensible manner possible. Just as 
if I’d been a chicken. My father put up a ring-fence on 
the lawn, and I was dropped inside to crawl about and 
roll as I pleased. There was a sort of kennel for me to 
go to when it rained, but I think on the whole I preferred 
the wet grass. And this is the result,” concluded 
Beatrice, with a kind of shyness that was new to her. 

Before Burrough could make the complimentary reply 
132 


The Mother of Rivers. 


which he intended, she anticipated him by an exclamation 
of pleasure and the cry — 

“ Away to the right, or we’ll be in the marsh ! ” 
Burrough looked up and saw Steeperton standing 
beyond like Chrephren’s pyramid, its grey peak pricking 
the soft blue sky, and the silvery ribbon of Taw River 
winding round its base. He realised suddenly how 
entirely alone they were. 

“There’s a sort of pony-track this way — beneath the 
Tor,” said Beatrice the guide. 


133 


CHAPTER XIII. 


HOW THEY STOOD UPON CRANMERE. 

“ Now we’re getting into the land of pixies,” quoth 
Beatrice, as she tried to lift a big shell which was lying 
sideways against a clump of heather. “ This is the sixth. 
It must be from one of the new guns. My s’ars ! it is 
heavy. I wonder what sort of a charge it takes to hurl a 
thing like this four or five miles ? ” 

They had reached the side of Steeperton Cleave. 
There was not a living thing in sight. All around the 
peaty soil had been torn into pits and jagged fissures by 
projectiles. It was impossible to walk more than a few 
paces without seeing one of the ugly iron cylinders. A 
spectral figure stood near in the pose of a scarecrow. It 
was a dummy man. A well-aimed shell had pierced its 
wooden chest. 

“ One summer a man came along here, and he saw a 
nice bright shell,” said Beatrice, who had become 
frivolous again. ‘‘ Men like nice bright things as much 
as children — at least this man did. He thought to him- 
self, ‘ This is a very pretty thing : I’ll take it home and 
play with it.* But when he picked it up and saw that it 
was all alive-o, he was so drefful startled that he dropped 
it on his big toe.” 

She made as though she would kick another shell, but 
changing her mind, jumped over it instead. 

134 


How They stood upon Cranmere. 

“ Well, what happened ? ” said Burrough. 

“ I left it to your imagination. He dropped the shell, 
and went to — heaven. To drop a live shell is a good 
way of obliterating oneself. It’s warranted to leave no 
mark. Now you see me ! Now you don’t ! That’s the 
sort of thing. Look down there.” 

Burrough followed her pointing finger, and saw, on a 
grassy ledge some way below, a crumbling ruin just 
above the river. Evidently it had been a dwelling-house 
once. Part of the walls still stood, and even at that 
distance a big fireplace was visible. 

“That’s the domiciliary edifice erected by John,” said 
Beatrice, roguishly. 

“ Shall we go down and look at it ? ” he suggested. 

“ We shall not,” she replied. “ We have quite enough 
in front of us. Besides, we will come back that way, 
following the river. It’s a jolly sentimental sort of a 
ruin. I should like to paint it, only if I did try it would 
be sure to come out a cathedral or a town hall.” 

“ It must have been built by the Tinners,” said 
Burrough. 

“ Oh, no,” she declared. “ Nothing of the kind what- 
ever. It was built by the pixies, with the kind assistance 
of the Cranmere witches. The style of architecture is 
distinctly Pre-Adamite, as you will observe if you examine 
it closely. It was formerly the palace of the king. The 
last king of the pixies was Tom-tit-tot the Sixth, and he 
allowed the place to fall out of repair. He knew the 
pixies were going to become extinct, so he didn’t bother. 
And now we must keep right on the top of the hill, or we 
shall be stugged in the mire.” 

They tramped on resolutely, with the sun almost 

135 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Straight above their heads. Presently Beatrice went upon 
her knees, and began to eat whortleberries. “ They’m 
lovely whorts up here,” she explained, “ big, blue, and 
juicy. Come and have some. Gugh ! Bluggy thing,” 
she exclaimed, as an over-ripe berry broke between her 
fingers and stained them scarlet. “ I suppose you didn’t 
bring a toothbrush with you? It’s wanted after eating 
these squashy things.” 

“ I thought you had brought everything you could 
possibly require,” he said. 

Everything except a toothbrush, I think I said. I 
forgot it at the last moment. Do have some more 
whorts.” 

“ There are none,” said Burrough. These are not 
ripe.” 

“ Sour things are nice when you’re thirsty,” said 
Beatrice. “ But we must go on. Away and away! To 
the decayed peat-waste of a past age, silent, dreary, 
lifeless, without bird or animal, and to the pool where 
Bingie lives.” 

“ Where did you get that from ? ” he asked. 

“ Part guide-book, part my own invention. What 
stupid people write guide-books — sort of Willums in high 
life, I should think ! And how wild they are upon 
churches — I mean sacred edifices. Wherever you go 
there’s sure to be a sacred edifice which isn’t a bit like 
any other sacred edifice all the world over, though if you 
do go and see it you don’t see anything at all different 
from any other sacred edifice. There’s one or two 
mouldy monuments, of course, but who ever wants to 
look at them ? Another thing they’re wild upon is stones. 
Any old heap of stones is good enough for them. They 
136 


How They stood upon Cranmere. 

always call them Druidical remains, though I expect 
they were only put there for mending the road. It’s 
rather disappointing to read in a guide-book about 
precipices, cascades, and gorges ; and when you get to 
the place to find only a rock, and a stickle, and a crack 
in a mud-bank.” 

“ Guide-books are intended to be advertisements,” 
reminded her companion. 

“ Like the advertisement of a patent medicine, which 
cures everything from old-age to a broken leg,” chattered 
Beatrice. “ Oh, but seaside places 1 They are the 
worst. They knock out the guide-book, and leave the 
patent-pill cold and stiff. Every seaside place suits 
invalids much better than any other place. It has a 
warmer temperature than any other, and publishes figures 
to prove it. Every seaside place is the only one which 
never has fog or snow. It has more sunshine than any 
other place. It has flowers which absolutely refuse to 
bloom anywhere else. Lord ! what liars we are.” 

“ We can’t help that,” said Burrough philosophically. 
“ Lying has become quite a venial sin. Society demands 
lies from us. A few generations hence no one will be 
able to narrate a bare fact without perversion or dis- 
tortion. It has become almost impossible now.” 

“ Here is something the guide-book would not men- 
tion,” cried Beatrice, pointing to what might have been 
a piece of white marble, wrinkled with black veins, 
and lodged in a mud-cleft. “ There are a lot of those 
stones about. When I become a millionairess I shall 
have them collected and a house built with them. I 
know ! I’ll restore Tom-tit-tot’s palace with them, and 
live there all summer.” 


137 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

‘‘ And a shell would fall and blow it to pieces,” added 
Burrough. 

“Bother the shells ! I should buy some big guns and 
fire back. Yes, I would raise an army, and proclaim 
myself Empress of Dartmoor.” 

“ Would you include me among your ministers ? ” 

“ Why, yes ! I would give you a cocked hat, and 
make you Field Marshal.” 

“ I think I should prefer a post of equal honour and 
less danger.” 

“ Wouldn’t you like to fall like a hero ? ” she cried, 
reproachfully. 

“ I would rather live like a gentleman,” he said. 

“ Since you are not romantic, you shall be First Lord 
of the Treasury.” 

“That will suit me very well. May I kiss hands on 
my appointment ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” she laughed. “ How do you buy 
guns ? Suppose I went into the stores, and said, ‘ I 
want some artillery, please,’ what would they say ? ” 

“ They would regret exceedingly that they were quite 
out of the article, and then detain you until a doctor from 
the nearest asylum could arrive.” 

“ But not if I told them I was a real Empress .? ” 

“Then they would send for two doctors.” 

“ What a vile world ! ” said she. “ But I wouldn’t be 
an Empress unless I could do as I liked. For instance, if 
Mrs. Cobbledick were to be late in bringing up mymorning 
cup of tea, I should want to ring the bell for a soldier, and 
say, ‘Take her away, and cut off her head, please.’ I 
should hate it, if he replied, ‘ Beg pard’n, mum. You’ll 
have to get an Act of Parliament for thikky little job.’ ” 

138 


How They stood upon Cranmere. 

Beatrice was still laughing over her autocratic longings, 
when her laugh became a scream, and she vanished 
promptly from sight. A patch of heather had given way 
beneath her, and a crevasse had swallowed her up. 

“ It’s all right,” came a smothered voice. Tm not 
lost, but gone before. I’ve fallen into lovely soft mud, 
so nothing is broken. I’m jammed ! You’ll have to 
extract me with a corkscrew.” 

Burrough parted the heather, and immediately a some- 
what grimy little hand was extended. He seized it and 
tugged, and up came Beatrice on her knees. “Just as 
good as ever, reasonable wear and tear excepted,” she 
gasped. “ Serves me right for not poking that clump of 
heather with my six-foot pole.” 

“There are any number of fissures ahead,” cried 
Burrough, who was standing upon an elevation just above. 

“ We are on the borders of Cranmere,” she said. 
“ And I’m dirty already. If there was only one crevasse 
upon Cranmere, and one bog upon Dartmoor, I should 
be dead certain to tumble into the one, and get slugged 
in the other. Oh, boots ! boots ! ” she wailed tragically, 
“ you were lovely and pleasant when I started, and now 
you’m mucky twoads.” 

The serious part of the journey commenced with their 
arrival upon the broken ground. Burrough negotiated 
the crevasses by sliding down one side, crossing by 
means of the tussocks, and scrambling up the muddy 
walls opposite. Beatrice took little runs and jumped 
them. Presently they got upon the plateau, and felt the 
keen breeze, and saw the stagnant pools. At every step 
the water oozed up and covered their boots. 

“ We’re atop ! ” cried Beatrice. “ It’s only one o’clock. 

139 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

There is Fur Tor in the midst of wild nature in her 
remotest fastness. That’s guide-book again. Now for 
the Pool. We must keep to the left. You are also 
requested to keep to the path.” 

The last remark was for the benefit of her companion, 
who had floundered into a patch of deceptive mud and 
was sinking rapidly to his knees. 

Wallop ! ” mimicked Beatrice, as one boot came out 
with a sound like a pop-gun. Your boots are worse 
than mine now.” 

“ You can jump ! ” Burrough exclaimed admiringly, as 
he watched the girl leaping from one tussock to another. 

“I’ve been jumping all my life,” she said. “My 
primitive ancestor must have been a frog, instead of an 
ape. With short skirts I can jump a hurdle.” 

“How do you know which way to go?” he asked. 
“When I came here before I simply wandered in circles 
and became hopelessly lost. I couldn’t even find the 
way back until it was nearly dark.” 

“ I’ve been here so often that I can go straight to the 
Pool,” she answered. “ There isn’t a guide on Dartmoor 
who can get there more quickly than I,” she went on 
proudly. “ Why, I put a guide right one day. He was 
‘ pixy-led summat fearful ’ he told me, and the people 
with him were looking ‘ summat fearful ’ too. I led them 
to the Pool, made my best bow, and vanished. I expect 
they thought I was a wandering spirit — Bingie’s wife 
perhaps, or the White Witch of Cranmere — because it 
was a windy day and my hair had blown down, and I had 
fastened it round my waist. That is the only time I have 
ever met people up here.” 

They went on jumping, wading, and scrambling across 
140 


How They stood upon Cranmere. 

the desolate plateau, until Beatrice cried out in triumph, 
and pointed out to her companion the top of a post just 
visible against the dark background of saturated peat. 
A minute later progress became easier, a slight descent 
began, and almost immediately they saw the bed of the 
dried-up Pool, and the rough cairn of turves and stones, 
and the almost level stretch of deep-brown peat upon 
which the water had once spread and the rushes had 
flourished. There was not a sound. Even the breeze 
which shook the bleached sedges failed to disturb the 
silence. 

However, Beatrice very soon broke it. With a cry of, 
“We’re in the middle of Cranmere, and I’m the only 
perfectly dry thing upon it,” she went down upon the 
edge of the Pool and began to unpack her knapsack. 
While she was thus engaged Burrough made for the 
cairn and extracted the two tin boxes. Pie came back 
with the visitors’ book and several postcards, the sight of 
which caused Beatrice to exclaim, “Any letters for me, 
postman ? ” 

“ Nothing to-day, miss,” he replied. 

“ Well then, we’ll lunch,” she cried. “ We can attend 
to our correspondence afterwards. Here is a girl with 
two packets of sandwiches and a bottle of milk. She’s 
willing to swop one packet for any particular dainty in 
the satchel of the man, all muddy and damp, who lives 
on the moor, at the edge of a gorge, in the little tin house 
that Jack built.” 

“ You won’t covet my home-made dainties when you 
see them,” said Burrough grimly, as he drew out a bulky 
parcel and exhibited a shapeless mass of bread. 

“ What’s that ? ” she screamed delightedly. 

141 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“A poor thing, but my own make,” said Burrough 
humbly. “ Tis yclept a sandwich.” 

“ S’ars o’ mine ! A sandwich ! B’est going to yet en ? ” 

“ Ah, I be,” replied Burrough, in the same dialect. 

“ Well, I be wholly bate ! What a nice new idea ! 
Receipt for Sandwitche a la celibataire — take a pound of 
beefsteak and the largest loaf obtainable. That’s the 
raw material. Divide the loaf into two equal portions, 
add a tin of mustard and two pounds of butter, place the 
steak into position, then jam the loaf together, and secure 
with seccotine or iron rivets according to taste. Pack the 
finished article in a sack, and serve when starving.” 

“ There’s another in the bag,” said Burrough, giving 
her a glimpse at a second bulky parcel. 

“ What’s that for ? In case the first doesn’t prove 
effectual ? Like the man who was determined to kill 
himself, so first took poison and then shot himself. But 
this is sheer frivolity, and we’re at Cranmere Pool, which, 
in the words of the guide-book ” 

‘‘ No more guide-book,” he implored, Let me have 
your own opinion.” 

Ain’t got none,” said Beatrice. “I only know we 
ought to be solemn and sad. We ought to think of our 
sins, and of the shortness of this our mortal life. We 
ought to make a resolution to live more soberly, and to 
put the past behind us, and to keep the future in front of 
us, and to let the present stop just where it is. Ah, 
dearly-beloved, what a great and wonderful thought this 
is. It is not yesterday, nor yet to-morrow, but it is, my 
friends, it is to-day. We know that spring is over. We 
realise — how I cannot tell you — that this is summer. By 
some marvellous process we believe that autumn will 
142 


How They stood upon Cranmere. 

come again. Let this thought sink into your hearts, as 
our nice clean boots sink into the bogs of Cranmere. 
There ! That’s a specimen of old Y.’s pulpit oratory.” 

“ Much too lucid and well-connected for him,” laughed 
Burrough. 

“ Don’t you say anything against old Y,” Beatrice went 
on. “ He can boast of having preached the shortest 
sermon on record. It was on a Sunday evening. He 
toddled into the pulpit, mumbled a text which nobody 
heard, and said, ‘Be good. Hymn number sixteen.’ 
Then he toddled down again. I see that sandwich is 
fading away gradually. I’ve eaten about a dozen. Now 
I must write my postcards. How many are you going 
to post .? ” 

“ I have no one to write to,” said Burrough. “I have 
brought one stamped envelope, but I don’t know what 
address to put upon it.” 

“ Well, you may put mine if you like,” said Beatrice, 
kindly. 

“ And will you address one to me ? ” he asked eagerly. 

“ All right. I’ll put some nonsense inside. Nonsense- 
talking is my strong point, as you may have observed. 
Then we must stand up and wish, observing at that 
moment a terrible solemnity and a grim silence. The 
witch allows us three wishes, and they are sure to be 
granted if we’re good.” 

“ What are you going to wish for ? ” he said. 

“But I mustn’t say,” cried Beatrice. “Bingie would 
be angry, and my wishes would go scat.” 

“ I think I know. The first, health. The second, 
happiness ” 

“ And the third, three wishes more, if you don’t mind,” 

H3 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

she laughed. “You’re all wrong. I shouldn’t wish for 
health, because I have it ; nor for happiness, because I’m 
fairly middling that way already. Everyone wishes for 
wealth as a matter of course. Some people say if you 
wish long enough, it’s sure to come. You must mutter 
‘ money by day, and murmur * money ’ by night. They 
call that concentration. Auntie used to believe in that. 
She concentrated upon beauty, but as it didn’t come she 
exchanged concentration for art, which was more 
successful. I must warn you that Bingie is not quite 
infallible,” she added confidentially. “ Last time I was 
here one of my wishes was for a nice tender undercut of 
sirloin for supper. The reality was a shoulder of mutton 
as tough as indiarubber.” 

“ It was too trivial a wish,” Burrough suggested. 

“Tender beef is not a trivial matter at all. It is one 
of the seven joys of life.” 

“Are you writing to me.i^ May I see?” he asked 
eagerly. 

“ ‘ Trewidden, Trewinnard, Trewint ! ’ ” cooed Beatrice 
softly. 

Their correspondence being completed, they turned 
their attention to the visitors’ book, which was nearly 
half full. Beatrice whipped the pages over until she 
found her entry the previous summer. She indicated 
her scrawl with a pink finger, and the remark, “ It’s like 
my painting — wants a Daniel to interpret it. There’s my 
unoriginal remark, ‘Water, water everywhere, nor any 
drop to drink.’ I did once though,” she chattered. “ It 
was a blazing hot day, and my throat felt full of sand. I 
made a kind of bubbly noise every time I breathed. So 
I laid me down and sucked up saturated peat, green 
H4 


How They stood upon Cranmere. 

slime, and all manner of creeping things. Who was here 
last.? Why the Reverend Mr. Legge. He’s got more 
than two. He brought a lot of little Legges — like a 
spider. Here’s some more over the page. Why the 
man’s a centipede ! And Daddy Longlegs has written, 
‘ This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude.’ Oh dearly- 
beloved ! And he goes on, ‘ We owe great thanks to our 
excellent guide.’ I expect he owed the poor man his 
half-guinea as well. Here’s a silly man who pretends he 
can’t write, and has made his mark. What a pity there 
isn’t a tree or a bench here, so that he might have cut his 
initials. Here’s one who wants to know why they don’t 
drain Cranmere, and another who offers to exchange his 
private fortune for a bottle of pale-ale. Here’s a party 
of three jolly Irishmen — Patherick of Dublin, bedad — 
and one’s a bit of an artist, for he’s drawn a barometer 
and signed his name opposite ‘ dry.’ One of his friends 
has signed opposite ‘very dry,’ and the other opposite 
‘great drought.’ In fact,” criticised Beatrice severely, 
“ this book is a striking instance of the hold which liquor 
has obtained over the minds of men.” 

Burrough was sitting on a tussock which was more or 
less dry, smoking his pipe, and watching the girl with 
ardent eyes as she chattered her nonsense. He was not 
in the least inclined to talk. It was much pleasanter 
listening to her ; and her store of remarks was apparently 
inexhaustible. 

“ It’s getting chilly,” cried Beatrice suddenly. “ The 
sun has gone, and I felt something that might have been 
a spot of rain. Gugh ! ‘ this, this is solitude,’ as the 
parson says. Why, I declare there’s a mist ! ” 

Burrough removed his gaze from her, and looked in 
p.p. 145 L 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

the direction she indicated. He saw white fleecy clouds 
rolling slowly down the plateau. 

“ It’s only a passing cloud,” he said reassuringly. 
“ When it has gone the sun will come out again. The 
weather changes up here every few minutes.” 

“It’s not very nice,” said Beatrice. “There! Did 
you hear that ? I heard a sort of a humming, kind o’. 
It’s going to rain and blow like blue blazes. Here ! take 
the pencil and write quickly.” 

The wind began to sob and groan, and the wool-like 
mist thickened. Rain began to fall smartly. Every 
crevasse and tarn about them seemed to be suddenly 
occupied by invisible beings and creeping sounds. 

“The morning was much too fine,” said Beatrice, 
shivering a little. “Well, we must face it. There’s no 
shelter nearer than Tom-tit-tot’s palace, and I expect 
the bad weather will have passed away before we can get 
there. Let’s get off Cranmere as soon as we can. It 
will be a little bit more sheltered at Taw Head.” 

Burrough fastened up the two boxes and restored them 
to the hole in the side of the cairn. Then he called, “ I’m 
going to wish.” 

“ For goodness sake wish for fine weather,” cried 
Beatrice, as she slung on her satchel. “ Throw a little 
water over your left shoulder and wish hard for favourable 
signs and tokens in the heavens. My poor little life I ” 
she murmured. “ It’s going to rain and blow, and you’ve 
got a man under your guidance ; and it seems to me you 
will never see your dear old home to-night.” 


146 


CHAPTER XIV. 


HOW THEY TOOK SHELTER IN TOM-TIT-TOt’s PALACE. 

An hour later two storm-tossed beings were fighting 
their way step by step beside the Taw river, which was 
there little more than a meandering crack in the peat. 
They were completely enveloped in whirling mist, which 
looked and felt like masses of damp wool. The wind 
was in their teeth and was steadily increasing. It threatened 
to become a gale. There was not much rain, but it 
could hardly be distinguished from the wet mists. 

“ Now I know what a fly feels like when it’s strolling 
along a ceiling,” shouted irrepressible Beatrice, as she 
balanced her shapely body between bog and river. 

The girl had never looked so entirely fresh and 
charming. Her face was as red as a rose beneath the 
buffetings of the wind. Her hair, which had long ago 
discarded all pins and fastenings, streamed about her, 
and she had twisted the ends about her waist, and walked 
holding it. The wind stretched her scanty clothing 
tightly upon her and revealed every line from waist to 
ankle. She looked the very spirit of health and strength. 
She suggested the pixy queen or the white witch of Cran- 
mere. She appeared to make headway without effort 
It was different with Burrough, who was nearing the end 
of his tether. His breathing was becoming difficult and 
he was very weary. He had not spoken for some time, 

147 L2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

partly that he might save his breath, partly because he 
did not know what to say. He knew it would be impos- 
sible for them to reach the village, unless there was a 
sudden change in the weather, but he did not venture to 
put his conviction into words. Beatrice had arrived at 
precisely the same conclusion, and felt exactly the same 
unwillingness to mention the subject. They were both 
thinking of the ruin in Steeperton Cleave. 

The crack in the peat which represented the river made 
the most astonishing curves. It was a marvel of crooked- 
ness, so that in following it they sometimes had the wind 
on their backs and appeared to be returning to Cranmere. 
Bogs were everywhere. They were continually jumping 
the river to evade them, and when the crack widened and 
boulders appeared this became a matter of difficulty and 
some danger. In the meantime the mists increased, it 
became gloomy, and the wind whistled like weird instru- 
ments of music. 

‘‘ What were that you was a saying of? ” cried Beatrice 
when her companion at last called to her. 

“We shall never get anywhere at this rate,” he said. 
“ Can’t we get away from the river ? We seem to be 
walking in circles.” 

“ Leave the river 1 ” cried Beatrice. “ Why, it’s our 
only hope of salvation. If we got away from it we should 
be lost hopelessly. We should walk in circles then if 
you like. It would be Tregeagle’s very own job to strike 
a course over the moor without the river to guide us.” 

“ Are you tired ? ” was his next question. 

“ I shall be presently. I am putting on weight very 
fast. These woollen garments are soaking in the wet, 
and I could squeeze a jugful of water out of my hair. 

148 


Tom-tit-tot’s Palace. 


By the time we get into the Cleave I shall be a peram- 
bulating Cranmere. Bog I ” At that monosyllable they 
jumped, and went on twisting and doubling as if they 
were trying to throw the bewildering spirits of the mist off 
their track. 

Have you any idea where we are ? ” Burrough 
asked. 

“ Well I’ve got a rough, a very rough idea,” she replied. 

“ If it were clear we should see Steeperton, or rather 
the spur of it, on our right, and Oke Tor on our left. 
The widening of the river tells me that, and the stickles 
are beginning. We shall get into a frightful part presently 
— all bogs and boulders.” 

At the end of another hour the wind and the mist had 
increased and there was a great rain. Two very tired per- 
sons scrambled over the streaming rock-clatters, and one of 
them shouted in triumph when she perceived a dilapidated 
clapper bridge. The granite slabs had been broken, 
and the entire structure badly wrecked, by the Artillery. 
A huge shell was visible among the shattered rocks. A 
thick wire passed across the river and went up the steep 
bank through the heather. To this wire Beatrice pointed 
with the remark, — 

“Tom-tit-tot’s palace is just above. This wire runs 
beside it. We might take shelter there until the storm 
passes ? ” she suggested. 

They crawled up the steep bank beside the wire of the 
military field telegraph. Presently they reached a smooth 
stretch of turf which looked as though it had been mown 
and swept by fairy gardeners. A moment later a grey 
mass loomed out of the mist. They passed through 
what had been once a doorway, and the force of the wind 
149 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

became immediately broken. The mist was making 
strange shapes within. It was writhing and twisting 
along the walls, and passing like smoke up a huge 
chimney. But at least there was shelter. A portion of 
roof remained and beneath it was a huge antique fireplace, 
green with ferns and mosses, and there were blocks of 
granite for chairs and tables. 

“The first thing to do,” said Burrough, rousing himself, 
“ is to make a fire.” 

Beatrice said nothing. She seated herself in a corner, 
to wring the water out of her hair, and watched her com- 
panion with shy eyes. She thought it exceedingly 
probable she would have to spend the night there with 
him. 

“ Can you find anything dry enough to burn ? ” she 
said demurely. 

“ ni look under the sheltered side of the ruin,” he said, 
and disappeared, while Beatrice smiled nervously at the 
mists and played with her wet fingers. 

Burrough was soon back to announce his discovery 
of a peat-stack close to the wire of the field telegraph. 
It had been cut and placed there by the soldiers. 
The sergeant and his party, who had the duty of 
exploding the live shells that might be about the moor, 
had evidently made use of the ruin as a shelter in time of 
bad weather. Burrough brought as much peat as he 
could carry. There were gorse-bushes and dry bracken 
within the old walls. Beatrice produced paper from her 
satchel. After various efforts the fire was started. Soon 
the peat began to glow and warm scented smoke took 
the place of the mist. 

“ This is quite an adventure,” said Burrough, cheerily. 

150 


Tom-tit-tot’s Palace. 


“ Oh, it often happens upon the moor,” said Beatrice, 
indifferently. “ Fve been weatherbound like this before.” 

Silence fell again. Burrough gave his attention to the 
fire, while the girl combed her wet hair with her cold 
fingers. Suddenly a gorse-stick became ignited and sent 
a warm light across the damp walls and the two eager 
young faces. Before the flame died down they had 
looked at one another, and Beatrice felt angry, knowing 
that she had flushed. 

“ How noisy the wind is ! ” she said, hurriedly. 

“Do you think it’s going to clear.?” Burrough 
asked, boldly. “ You know this moorland weather 
better than I do. How long do you think this will 
last?” 

Beatrice laughed and plucked up her spirits. 

“ I won’t prophesy,” she said. “ It may clear in another 
hour or so ; it may go on half the night.” 

“ I am thinking of you,” he explained, awkwardly. 

“ Well, I don’t mind. Auntie won’t be nervous — at 
least, not very. She knows I’m a moormaid, and can 
look after myself quite well. How goes the time ? ” 

“ Nearly four,” said Burrough. 

“ Gugh 1 it might be October,’’ she said. “ Did you 
notice how dark it was last night ? There’s no moon. 
This fiery chimney will be the only light upon the moor. 
If I could have three wishes now, I know what the first 
would be.” 

“ What ? ” he asked. 

“ For a great cup of the hottest tea that was ever 
brewed.” 

“ You shall have it,” he said. 

“ That’s wicked,’’ cried Beatrice ; “ wicked to tempt a 

151 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

poor girl. Unless/’ she added, “you also are among 
the magicians.” 

Already Burrough had produced various articles from 
his knapsack. He set them out upon the hearthstone, 
and the girl bent forward to examine them by the glow of 
the peat. She saw a metal flask, a collapsible cup, a 
canvas bag, which she smelt and declared to be tea, and 
a tiny packet, which she pinched and decided was sugar. 

“ I thought you might want a cup of tea,” he said. “ I 
can boil the water in this flask.” 

“ This is entirely, utterly, too inexpressibly ” 

Beatrice began, then broke off and gazed, mischievous, 
witch-like, towards him between the dark-brown curtains of 
her hair. “ And I suppose,” she went on in the naughtiest 
fashion imaginable, “ if I express a desire presently for a 
little dinner, just a simple meal, you know — clear soup, a 
piece of sole, the wing of a chicken, and a relish — you 
will pull a lot of wee-winikin things out of that bag and 
serve it up hot.” 

Burrough had sufficient self-restraint not to look at 
her. He knew, by the mere sound of her voice, what her 
face had looked like when she said “ wee-winikin.” 

“ ril go down to the river and get some water,” he 
said. 

“ ril come too — I must,” she cried. “ I’m not going 
to risk losing my tea.’’ 

“ Don’t get yourself wet again,” he pleaded. “ I’ll 
follow the wire.” 

“ If you promise not to let go of it I won’t come,” she 
said. “ I know it sounds absurd, but in a mist like this 
one is absolutely helpless. You might be within a few 
yards of the place and never find it. I’ll give you ten 

152 


Tom-tit-tot’s Palace. 


minutes, and if you aren’t back by then I shall come 
down with a torch and yelling like the whist hounds.” 

Burrough gave the required promise and went out into 
the whirling clouds. While he was absent Beatrice sat 
gazing into the fire, with her hands clasped round her 
knees and little smiles chasing one another across her 
mouth. 

“ That’s nice and thoughtful of him,” she murmured ; 
“but, my child, you must behave yourself. You must 
not talk nonsense, and you must leave off squeaking as 
if you were talking to a kitten, and you mustn’t use 
west-country words and phrases. Can’t you see that sort 
of thing makes him uncomfortable ? You must be prim, 
and stiff, and old-maidish; only I’m afraid you can’t. 
You will keep on doing those things that you ought not 
to do. My dear little girl, really I love you very much, 
and I’m only telling you this for your good, because I’m 
afraid someone else loves you too, and if you are silly 
you will have to put up with the consequences. It’s no 
use saying you’re as strong as a little prizefighter, because 
you’re also a human being and a girl — a nice one, but 
still a girl — and when a girl’s feeling tired and slack, and 
has a good-looking young man with her, it somehow 
doesn’t occur to her to be sensible. ‘ And that’s the end 
on’t,’ as someone used to say.” 

Burrough came back safely, and in a very short time 
the water was boiling. He dropped the bag of tea into 
the cup, poured the water upon it, fished out the bag, 
added sugar and milk, of which Beatrice had a little left, 
and handed her the cup with the warning, “ Take it by 
the top, or it will collapse.” 

Beatrice thought it wiser to make no remark beyond a 

153 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

prim, ‘‘Thank you,” though a number of ridiculous 
things occurred to her. She sipped the tea with little 
gasps of delight. Presently she held out the half-empty 
cup and said prettily, “ You finish it.” 

He did so, although disliking the sugared tea; but 
that which was in the cup had touched her lips. They 
shared another cup and ate a few sandwiches. The 
weather remained as bad as ever. Burrough went for a 
fresh supply of peat, and Beatrice showed him how to 
build it so as to insure a hot fire. She piled a lofty 
pyramid, making below numbers of cunning air-holes, 
with passages above to convey the draught into the apex. 
She was a practical moormaiden. While she was thus 
engaged Burrough went to the sheltered parts of the ruin 
and cut a quantity of bushy heather, which he spread in 
the nook beside the fireplace. This was a bed for 
Beatrice. The girl watched him, but did not say any- 
thing. All the remarks which suggested themselves 
were instantly dismissed as being too frivolous. She 
wondered how long she would be able to keep it up. 

“It’s getting quite homelike,” she said at last, and 
immediately observed under her breath that it was a 
stupid thing to say. 

“Tell me if it’s comfortable,” he invited. 

She tried the bed, and was graciously pleased with it. 
She declared it was as comfortable as a spring mattress, 
and then scolded herself again for saying such a thing. 
She went on to ask for a cigarette, and after a few soothing 
puffs she forgot most of her good resolutions. 

“ Do you mind me having my hair down ? ” she asked ; 
“ because I can’t help it. I’ve lost all the hairpins, and 
it’s too wet to twist up.” 


154 


Tom-tit-tot’s Palace. 


I think you ought to have it down always,” he 
replied ; and after a moment he added, “ What lovely 
hair it is ! ” 

Beatrice ignored this remark, although the end of 
her cigarette glowed fiercely for a second. 

“ I wonder if we are the only two fellows weather- 
bound upon the moor,” said Beatrice slowly and dis- 
tinctly, thus giving him to understand that she expected 
to be treated as if she had been a male comrade ; but 
almost immediately she became feminine and fretful. 
“My feet are most uncomfortable,” she said. “Would 
you mind if I took my boots off ? ” 

“ Let me do it for you,” said Burrough. 

He went on his knees and began to unfasten the boot 
which was the first to be extended. 

“ They’re horrid soppy and mucky,” she murmured. 

“ They will soon dry by the fire.” 

“ We’ll sit and tell ghost stories,” she went on. “ If 
the pixies come here presently how astonished they will 
be. I hope they won’t be maliceful. Is my stocking 
wet ? ” 

“Not very,” he replied; while she screamed, “Don’t! 
It tickles.” 

A sudden gust forced its way into their shelter and 
beat upon the peat, making it appear like red-hot iron. 

“ That’s to tell us the king is on his way here,” she 
cried. “ King Tom-tit-tot with all his lords and ladies. 
He’ll say, ‘ What are yew a-here for ? ’ And you must 
bow and say, ‘ What’s that to yew ? ’ ” Oh, dear, she 
thought, Fm talking nonsense again. 

“ Go on,” said Burrough, who was struggling with a 
tightly-knotted lace. “ What would he say then ? ” 

155 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

‘‘A — what?” she mused. “Oh, he’ll say, ^ Ef yew 
ain’t out o’ my palace in less than no time, off’ll go yar 
hid.’ ” 

“ And then I shall put my foot upon his majesty and 
squash him,” said Burrough. 

“ You wouldn’t,” said Beatrice. “ You would be too 
frightened. Tom-tit- tot is the funniest little black impet 
yew iver set eyes on. And when he’s angry he twirls his 
tail horrid. Now shall I tell you a story ? ” she said, as 
she extended a little stockinged foot towards the glowing 
peat. 

“Tell me the story of Tregeagle,” he said. 

“ But every child in Cornwall knows that by heart,” 
she objected. “Wouldn’t you rather hear about the 
Lord of Pengerswick and his Saracen bride, and the 
witch of Fraddam who floats about in her coffin off 
Kynance Cove ? ” 

“ I would rather hear about Tregeagle,” he replied. 

“Very well, then,” she said. “You shall have the 
true Cornish version. I wish some of our old women 
could tell you the story. They would make you laugh 
with their quaint words and tragic faces. I’m no good 
at telling a serious story. But I’ll do my best.” 

“ May I sit beside you ? ” he asked. 


CHAPTER XV. 


HOW BEATRICE TOLD THE STORY OF TREGEAGLE. 

Charmingly she made room for him upon the bed of 
heather. She placed herself snugly between the wall 
and his shoulder, with her feet toasting upon the hearth- 
stone, and merely gave a sigh of gratitude when he 
leaned forward to place his knapsack between the rough 
stone and her heels. Then she began : — 

“ Once upon a time there lived a man whose name 
was Tregeagle. Nothing is known about his early life, 
because none of the Cornish villages will own him, 
which is rather stupid, because after all a great criminal 
is just as famous in his way as an equally great saint — 
you may expect to hear comments like that. Remember 
they are mine, and don’t belong to the story. Well, this 
man became at last the steward of Lord Robartes at 
Lanhydrock. If ever you go there ask to see Tregeagle’s 
room. Mention me, and they will be delighted to show 
it you. 

“Tregeagle was the wickedest man who ever lived. 
It’s much easier to say that than to give a list of his 
crimes. He was rotten all through like a medlar. As 
steward he gave the poor tenants an awful time, and it 
wasn’t long before he had screwed enough out of them 
to buy Trevorder, which is a nice estate in St. Breock. 
He went on amassing wealth and inventing new crimes 

157 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

until at last the sun refused to shine upon him and the 
grass withered where he trod upon it. You are not bound 
to believe that unless you like, but I think you’d better, as 
it may make it easier for you to believe what is coming. 

“ Tregeagle became a magistrate, and a churchwarden, 
and Chairman of the Board of Guardians, and all the 
rest of it. You see he was awdully rich, and men could 
be as wicked as they liked then as long as they spent 
money. Tregeagle lived hundreds of years ago, you 
must remember. But at last he got very ill, and knew 
that he was going to die. He didn’t like the idea at all, 
because there was a long line of devils standing in his 
bedroom waiting to grab his soul directly it left his body. 
So he called for his secretary and dictated letters to the 
abbots and priors of the district, asking after their health 
and begging them to pray for his, and telling them all 
about the devils who were waiting for him, and wondering 
whether the cheques enclosed would be of any use to 
their right reverences. Apparently they were, for the 
abbots and priors came as fast as they could, with bells, 
books, candles, and gallons of holy water, and drove 
away the devils in less than no time. Then they thanked 
Tregeagle for past favours, and assured him that any 
other esteemed order would receive their immediate atten- 
tion. So the dying man told them he would divide his 
wealth among them if they would save his soul. They 
agreed of course, delighted that it was nothing more 
difficult. Tregeagle died, and they buried him with 
great pomp in St. Breock Church. They chanted and 
prayed and sang for weeks, so that they might cheat the 
devil out of Tregeagle’s soul. That ends the first 
chapter,” quoth Beatrice. 


Beatrice tells the Story of Tregeagle. 

“Now we go upon the moor,” Burrough suggested. 
“ Thunder and lightning. Enter Satan as the clock 
strikes twelve.” 

“You’re going ahead much too fast,” said Beatrice. 
“ Its easy to see you never had a Cornish nurse. The 
Court of Justice scene comes next. It used to frighten 
me horribly when I was a kid. My nurse told me the 
story. My nurse was a fisherman, and his wife would 
always say, ‘ Dids ’en, dids ’en frighten my child .? It shan’t 
be frightened den. It shan’t hear Daddy Tregeagle howl.’ 

“ The Judge is upon the bench,” Beatrice went on, in 
a hushed voice. “ The jurymen are in their places, and 
counsel rises. The most celebrated case in the whole 
history of law is being tried. The plaintiff, as heir of 
Tregeagle, claims a large estate, which has since become 
part of the town of Bodmin. All that counsel for defen- 
dant can say is, that the dead man destroyed all the 
deeds connected with the property, and drew up forgeries 
in their place ; but he cannot produce any witnesses in 
support of this statement. It appeared to be a clear case 
for the plaintiff. The judge was about to sum up, when 
the defendant came into court and asked permission to 
call a witness. The judge consented. A cold wind 
seemed to pass through the hall, and everyone was frozen 
with terror, though they could not tell why. Then 
Tregeagle stepped into the witness-box. 

“ In the midst of a terrible silence, the counsel for 
defendant rose and questioned the evil spirit. The 
truth was soon out, and the jury gave a verdict at once in 
favour of the defendant. Then the Judge ordered the 
victor to remove his witness, but the man said, ‘ It has 
been enough for me to bring him from his grave. I 

159 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

leave him to the care of the Church of St. Breock which 
loves him so well.’ 

“The Judge sent a special messenger to the Abbot 
and his monks,” went on Beatrice, with a return to her 
flippant manner. “ The first thing the holy men saw, 
when they came into court, was Tregeagle standing in 
the witness-box. They did not like that at all, for they 
were afraid that little affair of the cheques might be 
mentioned. The lawyers talked at the clergy, and the 
clergy talked at the lawyers, and the Judge said it was a 
disgraceful affair altogether, and quite contrary to prece- 
dent, and went on to suggest that the best thing the 
Abbot could do would be to hand over Tregeagle to the 
Devil, who was waiting like a policeman by his side ; 
and the Abbot coughed behind his hand and said, 
‘ Really, me lud, as a churchman, I can’t possibly hand 
over a soul that might — er possibly be saved by — er 
repentance to the evil one.’ 

“ It would have been a shabby trick,” commented 
Beatrice, “ considering that he was living upon the nice 
fat fortune Tregeagle had given him.” 

When the girl had been describing the introduction of 
the spectre witness, her right hand had fallen somehow 
upon Burrough’s left. His fingers closed over it, but she 
did not attempt to withdraw the hand. She prattled on 
with her story, very much like a little sister entertaining 
her smaller brother. 

“ Presently one of the monks got up, and said he had 
found a way out of the difficulty. They must give 
Tregeagle a task which would lake him a long time 
to accomplish. While he worked, the devil should 
not be able to touch him, but if he stopped, even for a 
i6o 


Beatrice tells the Story of Tregeagle. 

moment, he would be doomed. While he worked he 
would have plenty of time to consider what a wicked 
person he had been, and thus his soul might gradually 
be softened, and in time he might repent and be saved. 
This seemed a good idea, and, on being put to the vote, 
it was carried unanimously. The next thing was to find 
a really lengthy job. One of the lawyers very soon had 
a suggestion. He thought it would be a good plan to 
send Tregeagle to bale out Dozmare Pool. One of the 
monks objected that this would be too easy ; but another 
thought that if a wee-winikin limpet-shell with a hole in 
it should be given Tregeagle as an instrument of baling, 
it might be difficult enough. A nice kind of thing for a 
parson to say, wasn’t it? Of course, the Judge inter- 
posed with the question, * What is Dozmare Pool ? ’ 
although he knew perfectly well ; and the lawyer had to 
explain it was a black sheet of water below the tin- 
streamers’ village on the side of Bron Gilly, surrounded 
by bare hills, dark and lonely. It was into this lake that 
Sir Belvidere flung Excalibur. The lawyer went on to 
say that he knew a man who had once spoken to another, 
who in his childhood had heard his grandfather say that 
he knew someone who had been related to a man, whose 
father had seen someone who had dropped a thorn-bush 
into Dozmare Pool, and the appearance of that thorn- 
bush — or another rather like it — in Falmouth Harbour a 
year or so later, proved what had always been suspected, 
namely, that the pool was bottomless. So the Judge was 
quite satisfied, and said to the Abbot, ‘ I think we can 
leave this matter in your hands. Reverend Sir. Will you 
be good enough to recite the necessary incantations ? ’ 
The Abbot said he should be delighted, so he sent for 

p.p. i6i M 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

bells, books and candles, and gallons of holy water, as 
before, and muttered the spells which protected the spirit 
of Tregeagle from the devil, and removed it to Dozmare 
Pool to bale out the water with a limpet-shell. And that 
ends the second chapter,’’ said Beatrice. 

Burrough still sat beside her, clasping the small hand. 
Once she had withdrawn it to throw back a tress of hair, 
but she slipped it back into his in the most confiding 
manner possible, and went on with her child-like narra- 
tive. She had squeezed his fingers more than once out of 
pure excitement. She was a Cornish girl, and she was 
telling the most popular story of Cornish folk lore ; and 
it stirred her blood, as the wandering minstrel of old 
must have felt his blood stirred when he sang of Arthur 
and his tragedy in a Saxon camp. 

“ Now for the moor,” she cried. “ The moor as it is 
to-night, wild wind, white mists and cold rain. The 
wind is the howling of Tregeagle, the mist is his breath, 
and the rain the sweat that drips from him as he works. 
Years passed away, which is what years will do whether 
you want them to or not, and all the year round there 
was Tregeagle baling with the wee-winikin shell.” 

She broke off with a sudden gasp. Her companion 
had flung his arm about her. 

“Your head was against that cold wet wall,” he mur- 
mured passionately. 

“ He baled and baled with the winikin shell,” Beatrice 
went on more dreamily, closing her eyes for a moment ; 
then fixing them upon the tiny feet which played together 
like two kittens beside the hot peat. “ But of course the 
pool remained just the same. The devil was near all the 
time trying to catch him. He knew that if Tregeagle 
162 


Beatrice tells the Story of Tregeagle. 

Stopped baling for a moment he was his; so he kept 
on bringing winds and storms. But Tregeagle only 
screamed louder and went on baling. 

“ At last the devil called all the powers of darkness to 
his aid, and raised a storm such as had never been known 
upon the earth before. There was lightning and thunder, 
fire-balls fell like rain into the lake. There was an 
earthquake. The winds smashed the tors. Tregeagle 
gave way at last, and rushed over the moor with a host of 
devils at his heels. He ran in circles, as people do 
when they are lost upon the moor; and every time he 
returned to the lake he tried to dip the shell. But the 
devils would not let him. Finally he made a great leap, 
and was carried by the wind right across the pool. He 
flew away over the moor and left the devils behind. 
They had to fly round, because devils cannot cross water. 

“ Away went Tregeagle, shrieking with terror, and the 
devils were still after him. They had nearly caught him 
when he saw the hermit’s cell upon Roche Rocks, and 
the chapel of St. Michael, near the wishing well, where 
the girls go on Maundy Thursday to throw in pins and 
pebbles, and tell their fortune by the way the bubbles 
sparkle and burst. He flew over the rocks, and as the 

devils were about to seize him, he dashed his head 

through the east window of the chapel. He was safe 
because his head was inside the church. Nobody upon 
the Cornish moors had any sleep that night. 

“ When the hermit of St. Roche came to the altar in 
the early morning, there was the awful head of 

Tregeagle looking down upon him. While the priest 
prayed the demons yelled. Swarms of devils hovered 
about the Roche Rocks, ready to seize Tregeagle 

163 M 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

directly he withdrew his head. He remained there for 
years. The services had to be abandoned. The chapel 
became deserted. The hermit was nearly dead with 
terror. At length he collected a crowd of holy men, and 
they decided to procure two saints who should take 
Tregeagle out of the window and remove him to Laffe- 
nack — it’s called Padstow now — and condemn him to 
remain on the beach until he should have made a truss 
of sand and a rope of sand to bind it. The difficulty was 
to find the saints. I don’t know how they managed it. 
Very likely they advertised : * Wanted, two saints. Must 
know spells and incantations, and thoroughly understand 
how to exorcise demons.’ Anyhow, the saints turned up. 
They pulled Tregeagle out of the window and off the 
Roche Rocks, and took him to Padstow to make his 
truss of sand. And that ends another chapter,” said 
Beatrice. 

She stirred a little, but without looking at her com- 
panion, and removing her hand, pushed the still damp 
hair from her forehead. She lifted her head ; it had 
been pressing more against his shoulder than the wall — 
and stared into the ruddy mists where big stones and 
jagged outlines were faintly visible. It seemed to her 
that the wind was less violent, but the rain had increased, 
and the clouds were as dense as ever. The gloom which 
was gathering was not that of the storm, but that of 
evening. She settled herself again. She knew that her 
hair was caressing his cheek, but she had not intended 
that it should. He could move away if he did not like 
it. His arm was still round her, and it was pleasant, 
she thought, and decidedly more restful than leaning 
against the wall. 


164 


Beatrice tells the Story of Tregeagle. 

Ho, and away for Laffenack Strand ! ” she continued 
blithely. “ Tregeagle found the rope-making worse than 
the baling. He didn’t make any headway at all. So soon 
as he got a ball of sand together it would break, or a 
wave of the sea would knock it into pieces. He yelled 
and screamed worse than ever, so that the poor people of 
Padstow had no rest by day and no sleep by night. 
They agreed that Tregeagle was a regular public 
nuisance. As the demon’s rage increased, his screams 
became so frightful that not a creature could stop in the 
town. A meeting of the council was called upon the 
plain, and it was decided that a holy man should be 
requisitioned to remove the nuisance. Now Padstow 
was better off than most places. It did not have to look 
about for saints. It had one ready made, and his name 
was St. Petrock. It was proposed by the grocer, and 
seconded by the butcher, that a committee, headed by 
the mayor, who was a shoemaker, should call upon the 
saint and request him to act in a public-spirited manner 
on behalf of his native town. So the mayor put on his 
robes and his chain, and went off, headed by the town 
band, to interview the Reverend Mr. St. Petrock. The 
saint was at home. He listened to what the mayor had 
to say, remarked that demons were certainly unpleasant 
things, and promised finally to remove Tregeagle from 
Padstow. He set to work at once, and forged a chain 
with which he bound the evil spirit, and then took him 
across the county to Helston, which was then called 
Ella’s Town. The saint set Tregeagle down at the 
estuary of the Loe, and condemned him to carry the sand 
from Barreppa across the estuary to Porthleven, and not 
to stop working until there was no sand left upon the 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

beach. They’re kind, charitable saints in this story, I do 
think,” said Beatrice. 

“ The people of Helston woke up to hear Tregeagle 
yelling and screaming as he shovelled up the sand, and 
they wondered whatever it could be. They were not 
left long in doubt, and after that there was no rest for 
them. Tregeagle screamed worse than ever, and no 
wonder, for as fast as he carried the sand across the 
estuary and emptied it at Porthleven, the sweep of the 
tide round Trewavas Head carried it back again. 
St. Petrock was an artful person. You won’t find any 
churches dedicated to him round Helston. They rather 
prefer the devil in that part of the country. The devil 
did try all he could to get Tregeagle away, but Mr. St. 
Petrock ruined the place. I’ll tell you how. Helston in 
those days was one of the principal ports in England. 
It was the harbour of the tin-streamers, and ships from 
all over the world sailed up the estuary of the Loe to 
load with tin from Huel Vor. 

“Now Tregeagle was staggering along the mouth of 
the estuary one day, with a huge sackful of sand upon 
his shoulders, when the little devil who was watching him 
thought he would have a lark. He put out his foot and 
tripped Tregeagle. The spirit fell on its face, the sack 
burst open, and its contents streamed out right across the 
estuary of the Loe, making a sand-bar which completely 
cut the town off from the sea. It’s there to this day, to 
prove that I’m telling you the truth, and what was the 
harbour is now called Loe Pool. Sometimes they cut a 
trench in the sand-bar and the waters in the pool sweep 
out and carry the sand away ; but the next tide brings it 
back, because it’s the accursed sand which fell out of 
1 66 


Beatrice tells the Story of Tregeagle. 

Tregeagle’s sack when the maliceful little devil tripped 
him up ; and the tide from Trewavas Head throws it 
back just as St. Petrock saw that it would. One of the 
morals of this story is that a saint can be quite as great a 
nuisance as a sinner/' said Beatrice. 

She sat up suddenly and cried, You are not listening. 
I believe you are half-asleep.” 

** I have heard every word,” Burrough said. “ But I 
can look at you at the same time.” 

“ It’s getting dark and gloomy. The fire’s dying 
down and I’m not dry yet. Don’t you hear Tregeagle 
screaming as he sweeps the sand ? For he is sweeping 
now. The poor people of Helston were in an awful 
state when they found their harbour had been destroyed. 
They collected all the bishops, priests, and deacons 
they could lay their hands on and rushed them down to 
Loe bar. Tregeagle was bound by spells once more, 
and this time it was decided to place him where he 
couldn’t destroy commerce or frighten people. So they 
carried him off to Land’s End, and sentenced him to 
sweep all the sand and shells out of Porthcurnow, round 
Tol Pedn Penwith, into the Valley of the Bosom, which is 
also called Nankissal. And he’s doing that still. You 
can hear him always. In summer he sighs and sobs ; in 
autumn he wails; and in winter he screams. The 
fishermen know when a storm is coming by the sound of 
his wailing, and they don’t put their boats across the bar 
when they hear him roar. And that, my child, is the 
true story of Tregeagle,” she murmured. “ Now put all 
your toys away tidily into the cupboard, then ring the bell 
for nurse, because it’s past your usual bed-time, and I’m 
sure you’re tired.” 


167 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Beatrice did not draw away, but stretched herself with 
a little yawn. He felt her strong body tighten and relax 
against him, and saw her eyes flicker and close. 

“Do wake up,” she said sleepily. “ There are all sorts 
of wild beasties about the ruin — ferocious sheep, ravening 
ponies, and mad March rabbits. Tve seen big eyes and 
little eyes staring out of the mist. It would be fearful to 
be trampled underfoot by a rabbit, or torn to pieces by a 
sheep.” 

“ I am wide awake,” he said. 

“We must make the fire up and have supper. It’s 
lucky you’ve got another giant’s sandwich. Then if the 
weather clears, and we can find a guiding star, we must 
be going home.” 

“ There isn’t going to be any star,” said Burrough. 

“Yes, presently. Do you think I could stop all night 
in this haunted ruin ? I should be pinched to death by 
pixies. All sorts of little people will be here by 
midnight — quite a mixed crowd. They would be dread- 
fully annoyed to find me here.” 

“They will find you here,” said Burrough boldly. 
“ Because you know it’s impossible for you to get away 
from here to-night.” Then he went on hurriedly, “ This 
has been a very happy day.” 

“ I’m sure it hasn’t,” she said flippantly. “ It began 
nicely, but it turned out a perfect beast. Do let me get 
up. I want to see the fire.” 

“ Beatrice,” he murmured. 

“ I’m here,” she whispered saucily. “ You needn’t 
shout. Will you please see if my boots are dry yet ? ” 

“ In a minute,” he said. 

“ Now you must be good,” she went on, with her sleepy 
1 68 


Beatrice tells the Story of Tregeagle. 

laugh. “ I told you a story to keep you quiet, and then 
I told you to run away. You’re very disobedient, and in 
the Sunday School books you will find that disobedient 
children are invariably devoured by lions.” 

‘‘ Never mind the Sunday School books.” 

“ But you must. S’ars o’ mine ! Don’t you know 
that the good child becomes Lord Mayor of London, 
and the bad child goes to the gallows ? ” 

“ Yes, but Beatrice ” 

“ Hush-a-den ! It shall be a Lor’ Mayor itself some- 
time or other, and ride in its own coach.” 

‘‘ Bother the Lord Mayor,” said Burrough, with his 
cheeks flushed and eyes eager, bending over her. 

“Won’t it be a Lor’ Mayor?” she laughed. “It 
shan’t be a Lor’ Mayor. Dod a bless it I It shall be a 
Bishop. O ! de blessing of it ! ” 

At that instant he kissed her saucy mouth. He had 
already kissed her soft hair a hundred times, and she 
had been quite conscious of it. 

“ Thee’rt a tiresome brat ! ” she sighed. 


169 


CHAPTER XVI. 


HOW BURROUGH BECAME A DUMMY MAN. 

It was early morning when Burrough awoke. He had 
never intended going to sleep, but drowsiness had come, 
and he had succumbed to it. He blinked his eyes when 
the clear light met them, and wondered what was the 
meaning of the grey ruin which surrounded him. Then 
he remembered, and hastily pulled himself round. The 
bed of heather was empty. The little boots had dis- 
appeared from the broken hearthstone where turves still 
smoked and smouldered ; and the satchel too was gone. 
Burrough looked about the ruin through the rents in its 
walls. A couple of horned sheep scampered away when 
they saw him ; a shaggy pony stared with wild eyes. 
There was not a trace of Beatrice. 

For a moment Burrough felt resentful. She might 
have waited for him, or at least have aroused him to say 
she was going, and that she preferred to depart alone. 
She was not the sort of girl who would care what the 
villagers said about her ; yet for the sake of peace she 
would prefer they should not know how she had passed 
the night with him in the ruin of Steeperton Cleave. 
That no doubt was why she had wished to steal alone 
into the village before anyone would be astir. She had 
not disturbed him out of pity for his weariness. She had 
acted quite wisely. It was not her fault they had been 
170 


How Burrough became a Dummy Man. 

Stormbound ; but the evil-thinking minds and slander- 
ing tongues of the villagers might very well determine 
that it had been his. 

The “ fulness,” as a Dartmoor dame would have 
called the mist, had vanished. It was difficult to imagine 
it in the clear sunshine of the early morning. The rain 
had dried off the whortleberries, and the wind was nothing 
but a murmur. The only distinct sound came from the 
river tumbling through the ruin of its bridge below. 

Burrough was too lazy to think. The sensuous waves 
of warm gorse-scented air lulled him into a feeling of 
perfect peace. He tumbled upon the springy heather, 
and tried to imagine the future — a future with Beatrice — 
but did not think for long. His eyes closed and he was 
soon again in the land of dreams. 

He woke with a muffled cry, and raised his hand to 
his head as though to avert a blow. It seemed to him 
that the pixy blacksmith had come beside him with a 
huge hammer and intent to murder. The phantom had 
indeed aimed a blow at his head, but he had dragged 
himself away in time, and the hammer had fallen upon 
the rock hard by and shivered it with a noise like thunder. 
The echoes were still ringing upon the moor. Before 
Burrough could fully awaken the noise came again. 
There was a furious hissing, followed by a deafening 
shock. The ruin trembled. Dust came down like rain, 
and after it a lump of peat fell upon Burrough’s chest. 
He was up at once, muttering, “ A thunderstorm ! 
Good Heaven! When is the weather going to be fine 
again ? ” 

The next moment he was laughing, because he 
perceived that it was as fine a summers morning as the 
171 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

heart could desire. So Beatrice had not gone after all. 
She was upon the other side of the wall, and had amused 
herself by throwing peat over it, as a hint it was time for 
him to get up. As for the noise, it had probably been 
caused by her rolling stones down the steep descent to the 
river. He picked up a piece of peat and threw it over 
the wall. No reply came, although he persuaded himself 
he heard a muffled laugh. He rushed outside. Nobody 
was there. 

In an instant Burrough was back in the ruin, as though 
he had been Tregeagle with the devils at his heels. What 
was it that had made the mysterious building a ruin and 
destroyed the old clapper bridge below? What had 
aroused him and flung that turf upon his chest ? Those 
ugly iron cylinders scattered all over the surrounding 
moor gave the answer. What a fool he had been to 
forget the artillery. He was upon the range. A shell 
might fall at any moment and blow him into fragments. 

“ On this day of all days in my life ! ” he muttered 
with shivering lips. During the next few moments his 
mind worked rapidly. Was it because of the danger that 
Beatrice had hurried away in the first dimness of the 
morning ? That could not be, because if the idea had 
occurred to her she would not have left him sleeping at the 
mercy of the gunners. Was it a chance shell which had 
fallen near the ruin ? He knew the firing was sometimes 
erratic, and he remembered the sheep and the pony he 
had seen upon looking out earlier. These thoughts did 
not bring much consolation, because he knew the cleave 
was upon the Cranmere range. He had slept five hours 
since seeing those animals, and since then the moormen 
would have rounded them up and driven them off. 

172 


How Burrough became a Dummy Man. 

Naturally they had not searched inside the ruin. They 
could not have expected to find a man sleeping there. 

While Burrough’s mind was at work his hands were 
busy methodically packing his knapsack. He did not 
lose his head, as he had lately done with Beatrice, and 
he managed to retain his self-restraint. He knew it was 
no good running wildly about the moor, like a hunted 
rabbit looking for a hole to dive into. He was aware 
that the particular part upon which the ruin stood was not 
visible from the firing point because of the steep slope of 
the cleave. It would be madness to run up the hill, stand 
upon the sky-line and signal. He might be mistaken 
for one of the dummy-men. He had been told by an 
artillery sergeant that at a great distance the rippling 
currents of air rising from the moor frequently gave an 
appearance of motion to the dummies and perplexed the 
gunners in their aim. Then he thought of the field 
telegraph and of the possibility of the firing being stopped 
if he were to cut the wire. A patrol might be sent out to 
discover why communication had been put a stop to. 
But he had no instrument except a pocket-knife, and the 
wire could not be cut with that. The only course open 
was to find a shell-proof shelter where he could hide 
himself until the mid-day interval. 

These thoughts passed rapidly through Burrough’s 
brain. He slung on his knapsack. He was a practical 
man in some respects, and had no idea of leaving his 
property behind. He passed out of the ruin, and as he 
did so the hissing began again; he cowered like a 
frightened animal, and a shell burst far above, flinging 
masses of peat into the air. Another followed almost 
immediately, and then a couple passed overhead screaming 

173 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

like the whist hounds. He heard them burst far ahead 
and breathed more freely as he scrambled down. 

Fear returned, however, before he reached the old 
bridge. He looked back and discovered a spectral 
dummy upon the crest of the hill. While he was looking 
the wooden man vanished, to the accompaniment of 
another terrific explosion, and the storm of stones and 
divots was renewed. 

“ Hot work,” muttered Burrough, trying to smile. 
“ Very hot work.” 

His first thought was naturally the selfish one of self- 
preservation. His second was gratification that Beatrice 
had slipped away in the early morning. It would have 
been terrible if she had been there, exposed to instant 
death or mutilation in some horrible form. The strong 
beautiful body of Beatrice scarred and crippled! The 
very thought made him shudder as his own danger had 
not done. 

There was no shelter to be found upon the treeless 
moor. Reaching the river in safety Burrough rushed 
over the rocks like a frightened water-vole, looking for a 
hole to creep into. Near the old bridge he hesitated. 
There was a shelf of rock jutting out from the side of the 
cleave and overhanging the river. The bombardment 
continued like a tremendous thunderstorm. Burrough 
scrambled down, dragged himself beneath the ledge, and 
crouched among the ferns, with the water splashing below, 
and the noise of war above. 

Not more than a few minutes had passed when an 
earthquake came. The ground shook, the great shelf 
which pressed upon him like the roof of a vault trembled, 
and some small rocks rattled overhead and plunged into 

174 


How Burrough became a Dummy Man. 

the river. When peace became restored Burrough re- 
considered his position by the light of a few fresh 
discoveries. As he dug his hands into the bracken they 
came in contact with something hard and round. It 
was a shell. As he looked down he noticed that huge 
masses of the river’s bank had been broken off. Some 
portions had not been cut away completely, but were 
hanging forward over the water; other parts had been 
blown into the stream. Burrough quickly concluded 
that his present position was as bad a one as he could 
have chosen. He noticed that the shells were falling 
either some way above the ruin or some way below, that 
is to say, across the high moor where the dummies had 
been stationed early that morning while he was asleep, 
and along the river. He remembered that the gunners 
were instructed to respect the stone antiquities of the 
moor as far as they could. They were not permitted to 
bombard the picturesque tors, or to drop their shells 
where stone avenues and kistvaens were known to exist. 
The ruin was therefore the safest place. It was between 
two fires, which was better on the whole than being in 
the direct line of one. 

Burrough lost no time in returning to the place which 
had sheltered Beatrice and himself from the storm. It 
was a very different and far more terrible storm which 
was raging then. He went up the steep ascent at an 
astonishing speed, and tumbled into the ruin sweating 
and breathless. As he made for the old fireplace a small 
pony stampeded in a panic from the corner. Evidently 
the shaggy little beast had become separated from its 
companions, and had been overlooked by the range- 
clearers. Burrough called to the animal in vain. All 

175 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

men were its enemies. It made off to the open moor, 
calling for its comrades, mane and tail streaming in the 
breeze. Quite possibly it had been left deliberately on 
the range by the moorman who owned it. If it were 
destroyed the compensation money might amount to the 
value of many ponies. 

Soon Burrough became positively elated. Hidden 
away in the chimney he felt that the odds were very 
much in his favour. It had stood through many a 
summer’s war ; and though no doubt it was only a 
question of time before a badly-aimed shell fell and 
demolished it, there was no good reason why such a 
disaster should occur upon that particular day. Burrough 
tried to forget that portions of the old stone building had 
been shattered by misdirected efforts. Broken blocks 
were close to his feet; there was an ugly rent in the 
jagged wall opposite ; through that hole he perceived a 
shallow pit which could not have been made by anything 
except one of those huge new projectiles — but it was 
foolish to think of such things. He turned to other 
matters. He wondered whether the pony would escape 
and rejoin its herd that evening, with a tale of its 
wonderful adventures, including the stupid frightened 
man who had driven it out of its shelter — or whether it 
would be lying dead or horribly wounded upon the high 
moor between the dummies. That was another un- 
pleasant thought, and others followed. Burrough 
remembered the tales that were current concerning 
the recklessness of the artillerymen. How they had 
been known to take aim at pedestrians wandering upon 
the moor, and to attribute any fatal consequence to 
accident. Well, that need not trouble him, because he 
176 


How Burrough became a Dummy Man. 

was completely hidden. What was much more dis- 
quieting was the fear lest some raw beginner might be 
firing presently. Such a one was as likely to drop a 
projectile upon the ruin as upon Cranmere. 

From his position in the chimney upon the remains of 
last night’s fire Burrough could look upon the corner 
where he and Beatrice had spent those happy hours. 
He could see her bed of heather. The pony had 
trampled upon it and defiled it, but it was still the place 
where she had rested. He could see the exact spot 
where her head had been. He thought of the wild 
evening — the whirling mists, the savage wind, the pitiless 
rain ; of Beatrice sitting upon the heather, toasting her 
damp feet, full of her west-country folk-lore ; of himself 
full of his passion for her. He saw her saucy face, her 
mocking eyes, her wilfully lisping lips, sometimes 
quivering over the woes of Tregeagle, sometimes laughing 
at them. He thought of his own words, “ You witch- 
girl ! You gipsy ! ” Of his kisses not refused. Of his 
wild promises apparently accepted. Of her sweet 
murmurs which might have meant everything, or little, or 
nothing — just her everyday nonsense, but softer, sweeter, 
sillier than ever before. 

Folk-lore and passion in the white mists and weird 
wind of Dartmoor had given place to sheer commonplace 
day with the horrible reality of its war-game. 

“ If I were to be killed here, what a haunted ruin this 
would be ! ” said Burrough. ‘‘ Every night a poor lonely 
ghost, bending over an imaginary fire, kneeling to take off 
imaginary boots — but very real to the ghost — listening to a 
fairy-tale, then rushing out with yells. The gunners would 
be requested to sweep the place off the face of the moor.” 

p.p. 177 N 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Burrough had neglected to wind his watch the pre- 
ceding evening, and the next time he looked at it he 
found it was not going ; but by the position of the sun he 
guessed it was not far off noon. The firing would there- 
fore not continue much longer, and before it would be 
renewed he could easily place himself in a position of 
perfect safety. As the shells were bursting at a con- 
siderable distance he left the chimney, and sitting upon a 
rock watched the whirling clouds and the fountain of 
peat and stones flung upward. Then he heard a weird 
hissing, and rushed back to his place of shelter. A 
shell exploded beside the river, just above the old 
bridge, and some stones fell on the very spot where 
Burrough had been standing. The ruin trembled, and 
dust rained down the chimney. 

After that there was peace. Burrough sat huddled 
upon the hearthstone, not venturing to stir outside for 
close upon half-an-hour, but not another shot was fired. 
At length he came out and waited several minutes in the 
open. Then he shouted at the top of his voice, and ran 
out of the ruin, like a boy released from school with a 
half-holiday to spend. 

His shortest way back was along the range, across the 
field of battle where the dummy corpses were lying 
grievously wounded. One at least had survived. Bur- 
rough saw the grey shape leaning upon the crest of the 
hill as he came up. He walked straight towards it ; and 
he was about two hundred yards away, and still some 
little distance below, when that catastrophe occurred 
which shivered the dummy soldier into fragments. 
It was the last shot and a well-aimed one. The 
wooden splinters were hurled in all directions ; and 
178 


How Burrough became a Dummy Man. 

where the dummy had stood appeared a dark hole in 
the peat. 

One of the splinters caught Burrough just above the 
right eye. He staggered, spun round, then fell upon his 
back and lay still upon the heather. 


179 


N 2 


CHAPTER XVII. 


HOW TONGUES WENT WAGGING IN THE VILLAGE. 

When Miss Pentreath came down to breakfast she 
beheld her niece sitting in the open window, stroking 
Floss Cobbledick, the cottage cat. Beatrice looked as fresh 
as if she had been in bed and asleep all night. She had 
washed and done her hair becomingly, and had changed 
her clothes; she was clad in white and fine laces; and she 
appeared satisfied with the world and her saucy self. 

‘‘Have you enjoyed yourself, dear?” asked her Aunt, 
peering anxiously into the mantle-glass to assure herself 
she was artistic. 

“ Very well. Auntie,” came the answer. “ I got back 
about two hours ago. We ran into the mists, and had to 
put up in a ruin on the moor. We made fires, and told 
ghost stories, and played games.” 

“ I ought to be shocked,” Miss Pentreath sighed. “ In 
fact I am shocked. I wish it were myself I had to be 
shocked at. You do enjoy yourself, Beatrice. You are 
so attractive, and you have a lovely complexion, and you 
have pretty ways — and you're a little beast ! ” she snapped 
smilingly. “ I have tried so hard to be attractive. I must 
have spent years trying. I used to go out into the rain, 
and sleep with my head hanging out of the window. It 
was no use. I went on getting uglier. You have no idea 
how jealous I am of you, wretched child. Many a time 
i8o 


How Tongues went Wagging. 

I could have bitten your nose off just to make you ugly. 
I suppose if I had it would only have grown again, and 
probably prettier than ever, just to spite me.” 

“ That will do/’ said Beatrice. “ Say your grace like 
a good little lady, and soople up your breakfus’.” 

“ I am not going to say a grace,” snapped Miss Pen- 
treath like a peevish child. “ I have nothing whatever to 
be thankful for, and I won’t be.” 

Beatrice was accustomed to these tantrums. She rather 
enjoyed them, although she was sincerely sorry for her 
made-up raddled relative, to whom nature had been 
unreasonably unkind. Miss Pentreath had often said, “ I 
was born to be wicked, and I have to be good.” To all 
outward appearance she was a most devout lady with a 
w’eakness for false complexions. She was the lady bounti- 
ful of her village, with a special kindness and sympathy 
for young women “ near their time,” whether married or 
single. She supported her clergyman and the church. 
She had a kindly heart, but there was a wanton spot upon 
it. Had she been born into the labouring class she would 
very soon have acquired an equivocal reputation. She 
had the maternal instinct strongly developed, but had 
been denied the woman’s primitive right and raison d'etre 
of existence, and she had never been able to get over it. 
She made a kind of potpourri of religion, inclination, 
and intention. She read an old-fashioned sermon every 
evening, but followed it up as likely as not with a selected 
tale from Boccaccio. She had three shelves to her 
library; one for classical works, another for religion— 
and a top-shelf. She was often explosive after one of 
Miss Beatrice’s escapades. 

“ Now I’m off,” said the girl, directly she had finished 

i8i 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

her breakfast. “I’m going down to the river to pick 
asphodel." 

I can’t think what you’re made of,’’ said her Aunt 
complainingly. “Jumping and climbing all yesterday, 
up during the night, and now off again. There’s one 
consolation — ^you’ll get bony and tanned and old-looking; 
and then I shall like you much better.’’ 

“Toad!" laughed Beatrice. “I’ve soaked my com- 
plexion so thoroughly in air and sunshine that it can 
stand anything, and as for my bones they’re beautiful. 
I’ve been walking, running, jumping, ever since I got off 
my hands and knees. I’ve never been long away from 
moor and sea, and when I do I choke and gasp till I’m 
back. Now don’t call me names. I’m a little beast of 

course, but I’m a healthy beast ’’ 

“ Go away, you horrid thing," cried Miss Pentreath. 

“ Pse going," said Beatrice. “ We’ll go for a stroll 
after lunch, and then prattle till tea-time." 

The girl went away by herself upon the moor, not to 
the river to pick asphodel, but to a favourite seat looking 
down into the cleave, and upon the river roaring gently 
over its granite. Having settled herself among the 
lichens and stonecrop she began to think. She wondered 
if she would be happy as a poor man’s wife, or indeed as 
the wife of any man. Marriage did not mean much to 
her. She was a strong healthy young animal, and she 
had no desire to find herself in a cage gilded or otherwise. 
There was nothing of the wanton about Beatrice. She 
had her passionate periods, and while these lasted she 
was prepared to love, not wisely nor moderately; but 
they passed and left her cold. In that state she really 
loved only the moor and the sea. She knew she would 
182 


How Tongues went Wagging. 

marry some day, “ to find out what it was like." She 
knew also that the moor and the sea would call 
her always. She could not leave her open-air. She 
must have her gorse, heather and bracken, and the salt 
breezes of her wild Cornish coast. Love and marriage 
she regarded as interludes between the acts. Her husband 
would be the hero of only a few scenes in her life. During 
those scenes she would take a passionate interest in him 
and his work ; and she would be as sentimental as any 
man could desire. But the chief things in life would be 
her splendid health and strength, and her love for moor 
and sea. 

At home she would pretend to mine for tin and copper, 
and to make water-works in the wild Cornish combes. 
She had played at such things as a child, and she had not 
yet put her toys away. She would search out places on 
the moor, name and annex them, and consider how she 
would build stone huts, and make tiny settlements, and 
occupy them with people of her own selection, who would 
wear costumes that she had designed, and obey laws 
which she had made. She had always been filled with 
such fantastic notions. Whenever she saw an old- 
fashioned village between the moor and the sea she 
longed to possess it, to encircle it with a wall, and estab- 
lish a little kingdom of her own. She would have men 
attired as knights and children as pixies ; and have lived 
in an atmosphere of romance and legend. 

“ I should make an agreement with my husband before 
marrying him," she said softly, with her eyes fixed upon 
the sunlight rippling in the cleave. “ And if he departed 
from it I should pack up and go. There would be no 
fuss and no nonsense. I should just leave him. I should 

183 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

make a good wife and a nice companion, if my wishes 
were respected. I would not be a junior partner and I 
would not be a slave. I should make allowances for any 
kink in my husband’s character, and should expect him to 
make allowances for any kink in mine — and there is one, 
I admit. The idea of husband and wife being one is 
very pretty, and equally impossible while human nature 
remains as it is. One and one make two, however you 
like to argue. There would be so much more happiness 
in the world if people would only agree to differ. 

wonder how much happiness has been spoilt by 
convention,” she murmured. “ I suppose the time will 
never come when it will not be considered positively inde- 
cent for a girl to tell a man she would like to marry him. 
A girl with money for instance — the man she wants is just 
the sort who would be too shy and proud to ask her. So 
she marries a rascal, who spends her money and goes off 
with another woman. I should not be afraid to ask,” 
Beatrice went on, flicking her handkerchief at a passing 
butterfly. “But whatever happens I must be free. To 
be in a town, in a street, in a house staring at other 
houses — that would make me mad. I must have my 
wild life, my heather and bracken, and my window open 
upon the sea. 

“ Last night,” she murmured softly. “ It seems a long 
time ago. I promised nothing after all.” 

When Beatrice got back to the village she heard a 
feeble voice calling, and, on looking round, perceived 
Mr. Yeoland grinning and beckoning over his garden 
gate. She went up to the poor old vicar, whose time of 
sense and sensibility was spent— she had liked him in 
those days — and the vicar seized her arm, pinched it 
184 


How Tongues went Wagging. 

with amorous and quivering fingers, and chuckled de- 
lightedly, “ You’ve been at it again. You naughty girl ! 
You stay out all night, you wicked girl, you ! ” 

“ I have not been out all night,” said Beatrice, crossly. 
“ Yes, you have,” he chuckled. “ What time did you 
get in this morning.? ” 

“ Oh, well,” she said, resignedly. “ I’ll plead guilty. 
Who saw me come home ? ” 

“ Willum,” said the vicar, expelling the word from the 
corner of his mouth with a wink of sheer delight. 

Beatrice muttered something concerning Willum which 
would not have pleased the worthy scholar. 

“ Tell me all about it,” said the vicar. 

“ I won’t,” she laughed. The beastly people 1 I 
suppose they are talking themselves hoarse about me. 
And you’re as bad as any of them,” she concluded. 

“ I like a bit of fun. Tell me about it. Go on.” 

“ We made a fire, and sat by it, and told stories,” said 
Beatrice. 

“We?” chuckled old Y. “You didn’t want me 
there ? ” 

“ We did not,” she said. 

“ You told stories. I know them,” he muttered. 
“ Funny stories.” 

“The sort that will be told of you some day,” said 
Beatrice. “ You will be like the wicked old clergyman 
who lived here more than a hundred years ago. For 
years afterwards he used to toddle about the place and 
make himself a nuisance.” 

“ He’s gone now. They laid his ghost in a beer- 
barrel,” said old Y. 

“It was an empty bottle of Hollands,” Beatrice 

185 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

laughed. And the bottle is bricked up in the wall of 
your study. You will find the account of it in that oak- 
chest in your dining-room. I know it's there, because I 
saw it years ago, but I suppose you’ve forgotten all about 
it. The ghost was laid by a moorman named Yeo. He 
was sent for on purpose because he was a famous ghost- 
layer. He locked himself into the study and drank 
Hollands till midnight, and then the reverend ghost 
appeared. ‘Well, Yeo, how b’est ye?’ said the old 
vicar. ‘Wonderful well, thank ye,’ said Yeo. ‘And 
how’s yeself, sir ? ’ ‘ I’m very well indeed,’ said the 

ghost. ‘ I never heard ye come in. How did’st manage, 
sir?* asked Yeo. ‘Through the keyhole,’ said the 
ghost. ‘ Now, sir, that won’t du,’ the moorman said. 

‘ You can’t make me believe that a gurt big gentleman 
like you came through thikky keyhole.’ ‘Won’t ye 
believe it ? Well, I did. I got through easy as easy,’ 
the vicar declared. ‘ Well, then, sir,’ said Yeo, uncork- 
ing the bottle, ‘ if you can come through the keyhole 
you can get into this bottle. But I knows you can’t.’ 

‘ Lawks ! ’ said the vicar. ‘ I could do it easy.’ ‘ That’s 
talking, sir. I don’t believe ye,’ said Yeo. ‘ Then I’ll 
do it,’ said the ghost. ‘Here goes. There’s many 
worse places than a gin bottle.’ Into the Hollands he 
went, and Yeo corked him up. That’s the sort of thing 
that will happen to you some day,” cried Beatrice. 

“ I wouldn’t be such a fool. I wouldn’t go in,” the 
vicar chuckled. “ You weren’t telling that sort of story 
last night.” 

“ Yes, I was. And if you say anything nasty about me 
I’ll knock down the wall in your study, and find the 
bottle, and let his reverence out.” 

1 86 


How Tongues went Wagging. 

Come in and do it," chuckled old Y. “ You’d 
look nice sitting in my arm-chair." 

“ No, thanks. I look quite nice enough standing out 
here," replied Beatrice. 

“ If I were forty years younger you’d come in fast 
enough," he ogled. Girls are all the same when it 
comes to a nice young man." 

“ Which you are not, and never were,” she said. 
“ Perhaps I’ll send Auntie to sit in your arm-chair. How 
would you like that ? " 

“ Let her come,” said old Y. “ My heart is as big as 
my arm-chair. There’s a place in it for the young, and 
a place for the middle-aged, and a place for the old." 

“ I’d rather be in the gin bottle," said Beatrice rudely. 
Then she left the old man, shaking with foolish laughter 
at what he considered a choice specimen of humour, and 
hurried home to luncheon. 

Miss Pentreath was in a very querulous mood. She 
had been strolling along the moor road and had seen 
various young people, to say nothing of those somewhat 
past that state, engaged in what she regarded as the very 
laudable practice of love-making. They may have been 
mere summer flirtations, but at a distance it looked like 
the real thing. Miss Pentreath felt not merely that she 
was out of the running, but that she had never been in it, 
which was far more galling. People had no right to 
lock hands and link arms in public — and as for that 
connection between a male arm and a maid’s waist it 
was sufficient to shock the mind or make the mouth 
water, according to the inclination of the watcher. They 
would even embrace on the bold naked side of the moor. 
The little lady was quite positive she had seen a young 
187 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

couple kissing, with the aid of a powerful pair of field- 
glasses. It was her own fault entirely. She had taken 
out the glasses and swept the high moor with them for 
no other purpose. 

“ No, my dear, I am not,’’ she replied, in answer to 
Beatrice’s question whether she wanted to go out again. 
“ I felt this morning like that poor man in the old story 
— what was his name ? Not Dives. What was that thing 
called your dear father used to keep his whisky in ? ” 

“ Tantalus,” said Beatrice. 

“That’s the man. He had nice things brought to 
him, and when he tried to take them they were snatched 
away.” 

“ But he was in hell,” said Beatrice. 

“ Well, so am I — sometimes,” declared Miss Pen- 
treath. 

This made Beatrice shriek with laughter, in which the 
little lady joined feebly. 

“You little cat,” she called at her niece. “ It’s easy 
for you to laugh, because you’re pretty, and fresh, and 
attractive.” 

“ Auntie,” broke in Beatrice, “ I’m not pretty.” 

“ Well, then, the kind of ugliness that makes everyone 
want to bite you. I expect that poor lonely Mr. 
Burrough would walk across Dartmoor to kiss your foot.” 

“ He’s done it — both feet,” murmured Beatrice. 

“That’s the sort of ugliness I want,” continued Miss 
Pentreath, without hearing her. “ Who would walk 
across the room to kiss my foot ? ” 

“ Old Y. might toddle down here to do it,” Beatrice 
suggested. “ I really think, Auntie, if you’re agreeable 
I might make a match for you there.” 

i88 


How Tongues went Wagging. 

It was Miss Pentreath’s turn to laugh, and she did so 
as fully as her complexion would allow. 

“ I have my self-respect left,” she said. ‘‘ I want a 
husband, and Tve always wanted one, but I should 
certainly decline to clasp in my arms an old man who is 
distinctly unpleasant in his ways, and has one foot in the 
grave and the other in the lunatic asylum.” 

“ Auntie ! ” exclaimed frivolous Beatrice. “ Have you 
ever been kissed ? ” 

“ Once,” Miss Pentreath replied. “ I was a girl then. 
I gave the boy sixpence,” she added. 

“ Oh, bribery! ” the girl exclaimed. “You don’t know 
what it’s really like. Where did he kiss you ? ” 

“ On the mouth. I bargained for that.” 

“ Kissing is an over-rated pleasure,” Beatrice went on. 
“ I like it best either on the back of my neck or on the 
sole of my foot. It’s a kiss and a tickle at the same 
time.” 

“ Be quiet,” said Miss Pentreath. “ Mrs. Cobbledick 
may be at the keyhole.” 

“ She has already invested me with the order of the 
black sheep. She knows I was kept out last night — 
only she wouldn’t put it that way,” Beatrice replied. 

“ Are you going to tell me what happened last night ? ” 
her Aunt inquired rather wistfully. 

“There’s nothing much to tell,” laughed Beatrice. 
“ It’s the old story.” 

“ But you’re not going to ? You didn’t promise ? You 
won’t leave me, darling?” 

“ Darling might,” said the girl. “ Darling didn’t 
promise, but she likes him rather.” 

“ How nice to be able to pick and choose,” sighed 
189 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Miss Pentreatb. It’s a wicked world that won’t give 
a poor woman a husband. The women will rise one 
day like those people in history. Who were they ? Not 
the Samaritans ? ” 

The Sabines. You’re muddled, Auntie,” replied 
Beatrice. It was the Romans who raped the Sabine 
women.” 

‘‘ The next time history repeats itself in that connection 
the women will run off with the men,” declared Miss 
Pentreatb. “ There was a country, I believe, which once 
made a law that prisoners should be released to marry the 
women who could not otherwise obtain husbands.” 

“ They preferred to stop in prison,” Beatrice murmured. 

“ Seriously though, you’re not thinking of marrying ? ” 
said Miss Pentreatb appealingly. 

“ Isn’t a girl always thinking of marrying, whatever she 
may say or think to the contrary, unless she’s been and 
done it ? When a girl gets her chance she thinks she’ll 
try it anyhow. The worse of it is she must go on trying 
it to the end of the story. Most girls don’t worry them- 
selves about that, but I do. I’d take Mr. Burrough on a 
five years lease if the law allowed ; but marriage as it is 
— it finishes off one’s life so.” 

‘‘ Then don’t do it,” cried Miss Pentreatb cheerfully. 
“You and I, Trixie, can enjoy ourselves as two jolly 
bachelors.” 

“ That would be all right if I had to,” said the girl. 
“There are lots of little fishes in my pool,” she laughed. 

“ Even when you were in short frocks, and had your 
hair down, they wanted to nibble,” said Miss Pentreatb. 
“ There was a silly young curate, who used to bicycle ten 
miles every day that he might watch you over the hedge.” 

190 


How Tongues Avent Wagging. 

St. Anthony, as I called him, because he was so unlike 
that gentleman,” cried Beatrice. “ But he was keen. 
He used to beg me to untie my shoe-laces so that he 
might tie them up. And when I allowed him one day 
to take my shoe off, and put it on again after a pontifical 
kiss, I am sure he felt as if he had been appointed to a 
bishopric. When I told him he was neglecting his duty, 
he replied that love was the first duty of a minister ; and 
when I asked him what it had to do with tying a girl’s 
shoe-laces, he said that was the practical side of love 
which was necessary as a stimulus to the spiritual part. 
That curate could quote scripture to his purpose.” 

Never mind the flames that have gone out. What about 
the one that is burning now ? ” besought Miss Pentreath. 

“ He would make a nice summer husband,” mused 
Beatrice. ‘‘He’s boyish, clever, and nice-looking. He’s 
like me in a good many ways. We were both quite mad 
when we went swaling. We should pull together all right 
for the summer, but in the winter I should want my long 
vacation. I can’t stop out of Cornwall for the dead 
months. I should pine to death for Zennor and Carbis 
Bay, and dear old fishy St. Ives.” 

If you leave me, Beatrice, I shall pine away too,” 
stated Miss Pentreath. 

Before the girl could reply to this there sounded the 
alarums of Mrs. Cobbledick’s voice, accompanied by the 
excursions of Willum’s boots. These tempestuous noises 
increased, the door was opened without ceremony, and 
the lady of the house became revealed, with the sandy- 
haired scholar behind ; the one overcome by the burden 
of her tongue, the other oppressed by a sense of his 
dignity and weighty matters of the moment. 

191 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

The gentleman what lives alone on Dartmoor — him 
what went wi’ ye to Cranmere yesterday — he’m all to 
pieces, and there ain’t nuthing of 'en left,” gasped Ann, 
with the pride and delight of one who was in the position 
to harrow the feelings of others. 

Shut thee noise, woman,” exclaimed her son, with 
much excitement, forcing his mother into the background, 
and turning to address the ladies. “ Us have heard Mr. 
Burrough have been shot,” he went on, not without a 
certain amount of that relish he had lately deprecated. 

“ Don’t ye talk to I, Willum,” screamed Ann. “ He 
be all to bits. Charlie what drives Eastaway’s granite 
cart said he saw the bits. Head as ’t might be here, and 
a boot as ’t might be there, and an arm as ’t might be 
under the chair where Miss Pentreath be sitting ” 

“ Be quiet, Mrs. Cobbledick,” interrupted Miss Pen- 
treath sharply. Darling, give me my snuff-box.” 

Beatrice passed her Aunt the silver article which 
contained the fragrant dust, found by the little lady more 
refreshing and stimulating than the more modern vinai- 
grette. While she was making the connection between 
finger and nostrils, Willum again suppressed his mother, 
and commenced to give details. 

He were on the range, and a shell dropped on ’en 
and killed ’en instantedly. He went over dead like a shot 
rabbut. There was a balloon over the camp, and the 
officer in it sent down a message that a pony had been 
shot. They sent out a sergeant and two men, and they 
found Mr. Burrough. They picked ’en up and carried 
’en away.” 

“ He were all in bits,” repeated the irrepressible Mrs. 
Cobbledick. 


192 


How Tongues went Wagging. 

“ He warn’t,” retorted Willum. “ Twas just his 
head taken off ; that was all. The body warn't 
touched.” 

“ Us’ll never hear the truth of it. They won’t tell us,” 
grumbled Ann. “ They’ll bury ’en quiet, and say ’twas 
an accident, and nobody won’t know.” 

Beatrice had been standing perfectly still while the 
birds of ill omen were croaking. Whatever her feelings 
might have been, she was quite able to suppress them. 
Having with some difficulty removed the Cobbledicks, 
she closed the door, and going to her aunt’s side, took the 
little lady by the hand and murmured — 

** Auntie, I’m sorry. It was my fault.” 

Miss Pentreath dipped two nervous fingers into her 
snuff-box and adorned her nose with a brown smudge. 

“ I think I’ll run over to Mr. Burrough’s cottage,” the 
girl went on hastily. “There might be someone about who 
can talk sensibly, or I might come across one of the 
artillerymen. I won’t be gone long.” 

Just as she was Beatrice hurried through the village, 
collecting information as she went. From illiterate 
Kentisbeer she learnt that the Cobbledicks’ report had 
been slightly exaggerated. Burrough had not been 
blown to pieces, although it was true he had been killed, 
as Willum had endeavoured to explain, instantaneously. 
Later she met cross-eyed Dufty, who informed her that 
Burrough had not been dead when the soldiers picked 
him up, but he had passed away as they carried him 
home. A few minutes later she encountered the 
unwashed Wannell, who professed to have the latest 
information upon the subject. It appeared that Burrough 
was still actually breathing, although entirely unconscious, 

p.p. 193 o 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

and it was impossible for him to live through the 
night. 

Finally Beatrice reached the cottage, and learnt from 
an orderly, who was awaiting instructions from the army 
surgeon who was inside, that Burrough was not in the 
slightest danger of losing his life. 


194 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


HOW BEATRICE FORGOT TO BE FRIVOLOUS. 

It was two weeks after Burrough and the dummy had 
been bowled over by the same projectile. The remains 
of the wooden man had gone to feed camp fires ; those of 
the other were receiving the attentions of the War Office. 
An army doctor attended Burrough daily, and an army 
nurse permanently. And Beatrice came to visit him very 
often. She would hold his hand, and prattle her nonsense, 
and frisk about the bed like a kitten at play. 

A splinter from the dummy had struck Burrough just 
above the right eye, but had luckily glanced off without 
penetrating. To what extent the eye itself was injured he 
did not know, and the surgeon had not told him. “ Just a 
nasty scratch ! You’ll soon be about again,” said that 
cheery optimist. In the meantime much correspondence 
took place between the secretary of the colonel command- 
ing the artillery camp and the War Office concerning 
the effect of a certain class of projectile upon a wooden 
dummy and a human being, thereinafter called “B.,” situate 
in a straight line some two hundred yards in its rear. 

It was Sunday evening. The nurse had gone out, 
and Beatrice was in charge. Burrough was sitting up 
quite in a cheerful mood, because the doctor had informed 
him that morning he was going on very well indeed and 
would not require professional attendance much longer. 

195 o 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

The couple were discussing a matter of great importance, 
the question whether Burrough should, or should not, 
apply for compensation. 

It seems rather mean after all they have done for me,” 
Burrough said. 

“You can’t be mean to a Government,” Beatrice 
declared. “Nobody wants to cheat a private individual, 
but if one can travel first-class upon a third-class ticket 
one does.” 

“ I had no right to be on that part of the moor at all,” 
he said. 

“ You couldn’t help it. The range-clearers ought to 
have found you. They are employed to see that all 
living creatures are off the moor before firing begins. A 
master is responsible for any injury arising from the 
negligence of his servants.” 

“ Who told you that ? ” 

“ There’s a lawyer stopping opposite Mother Ann’s. 
He said he was sure you were entitled to compensation. 
Of course you are,” she rattled on. “ Can’t you imagine 
yourself as a pensioner? You will tell people you were 
gloriously wounded in the service of your country while 
performing an act of heroism without parallel in the 
annals of war. That’s a sentence I picked up the other 
day in a life of someone. Y ou will describe how your com- 
rade — that’s the dummy — was blown to pieces, but you 
survived to receive the reward of an admiring and 
grateful country, and then you will show your scars, and 
they will pass the hat round for you, and say what a 
gallant hero you are, and how they’ll never see your like 
again.” 

“ Has the doctor told you I shall be scarred ? ” asked 
196 


How Beatrice forgot to be frivolous. 

Burrough anxiously. “ That is what is bothering me,” 
he added. 

“ Really you mustn’t expect to stop shells with your 
head without getting beauty spots,” she laughed. “ Now 
you must strike while the iron is hot, and before the 
incident has ceased to be regrettable. Shall I write a nice 
letter for you to the War Office, like this — let me con- 
sider deeply — ‘ Dear Mr. Secretary of State for War, — I 
dare say you are aware that some of your chaps are playing 
at soldiers on Dartmoor, and t’other day some of ’em shot 
a shell plump into my right eye ’ ? ” 

“ That won’t do,” exclaimed the patient. 

“ If they can’t appreciate frivolity in a Government 
office, where is it to be appreciated ? ” cried Beatrice. 
“ Well, we’ll try another style, the whining won’t- work and 
won’t- wash mendicant style : ‘ Excuse me, your honour, 
but can you help a poor fellow who’s out of work owing 
to an unfortunate collision with a projectile fired by one 
of your gunners?’ Won’t that do, either ? Then I’ll try 
the heavy style.” Springing up, she ran across the room, 
and returning with the Life of Johnson, whipped over its 
pages until she came to what she wanted. “ Listen,” she 
cried. “This is what you want: ‘To interrupt your 
Lordship with my petty difficulties is improper and 
unseasonable ; but your knowledge of the world has long 
since taught you that every man’s affairs, however little, 
are important to himself. Every man hopes that he shall 
escape neglect; and with reason may every man, whose vices 
do not preclude his claim, expect favour from your bene- 
ficence, which I trust, my Lord, will be extended to your 
Lordship’s most obliged and most humble servant, John 
Burrough.’ That’s the sort of thing,” said merry Beatrice. 

197 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ I shall not apply,” said Burrough with determination. 

“ If they like to pension me they can, and I hope they 
will. But I won’t ask for it.” 

“ Then you won’t get anything,” said Beatrice. 

“ There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” 
Burrough went on. “ I was thinking about it when that 
dummy was crumpled up, and I with it.” 

“ Double-dummy,” she whispered. 

It is this,” said Burrough. “ Why did you go away 
that morning without me ? ” 

“ Well,” said Beatrice, flushing a little, “ there were 
reasons, all good ones. When I make up my mind to 
leave a place I go. That’s one. Then I hadn’t the 
heart to interrupt your innocent slumbers. That’s two.” 

“ Both bad ones.” 

“A pixy called me to the river,” she continued. 
“ When I got there, another called me along the cleave, 
and another to the marsh, and so on until I found I was 
nearly home. Now let’s talk about something else.” 

On account of his bandages, Burrough could not see 
her very clearly, but he perceived she was withholding 
the actual reason for her flight. The truth was, Beatrice 
had been afraid on awaking in the light of day and find- 
ing herself alone with him. The dawn had stirred her 
blood. She had been enervated by the soft influence of 
the early morning ; and, like the first woman in the 
garden, she was ashamed, so went and hid herself. 

“ Do you believe in the pixies ? ” he asked her, rather 
to hear what she had to say than as a serious question. 

“ There’s a question to ask a Cornish girl ! ” she cried. 
“ Believe in the wee-winikin people ? I have a bed of 
tulips at home, and the pixies put their babies to bed in 
198 


How Beatrice forgot to be frivolous. 

the flowers every evening and sing them to sleep. I hear 
the little lullabies as I lie in bed by my open window. 
And at dawn they come back, and I can hear them 
kissing their kiddies. Then on the side of the moor 
above the sea I can hear them dancing hand-in-hand 
round and round the furze-reek before it has been carried 
away.” 

** What is the furze-reek ? ” Burrough asked. 

“ Don’t you know that ? And you living on Dartmoor 
and going swaling ! Even Willum could tell you that. 
It’s the furze after it has been burnt. It’s the firewood 
of poor Cornish folk, and they collect it in the autumn. 
Most of the places in Cornwall are named after pixies. 
And here’s another story. Somewhere beside the Tavy 
a herb grows, and it will cure any wound. Only it must 
be gathered at night, and by a pixy.” 

“ Couldn’t you get a pixy-trap and catch me one ? ” he 
asked. 

“The tiny people are vindictive,” she said. “If you 
were to catch one, his screams would bring all his rela- 
tions up, and they would pinch you purple. I like to 
get the old women of Zennor to tell me tales about the 
pixies of Trendreen Hill, and I like to believe in them. 
Oh, and you should see Trendreen Hill in swaling time 1 
They can see the flames in Scilly. The furze-reek there 
is big and fine. The boys used to get off many a 
flogging after swaling in summer — it’s not allowed then 
— by saying that the pixies had done it. But that excuse 
is no good now. I wish I had lived a hundred years ago. 
There were lots of pixies then. Now, am I tiring you .? ” 

“ You could never do that,” he answered, pressing the 
hand which he had annexed and was holding between his. 

199 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ IVe just remembered a story which will appeal to 
you,” she went on. “ One day three men were blasting 
at the copper mine near Botallack, and, the charge going 
off prematurely, one of the men was blown to pieces. 
The other two were not much damaged. One of them 
stooped over all that remained of his comrade and called, 
‘ Dear old Jim ! Thee bain’t hurt, aw ’ee ? * ” 

Beatrice told her story with ridiculous gravity, then 
went off suddenly into a shriek. When she had recovered 
she continued : “ I can tell you something else now I am 
in a remembering mood. It’s not funny, not even very 
remarkable, but still it sounds queer. When I was a kid 
I used to go and see a very old man who lived in Zennor. 
It was he who gave me the true version of the story of 
Tregeagle, and I never forgot it. Well, this old man’s 
grandfather was one of those who welcomed home Bishop 
Trelawny after his acquittal in 1688.” 

“That’s impossible, surely,” cried Burrough. 

“ It’s quite true. I read the dates in the most curious 
old Bible you ever saw. The grandfather married for 
the third time very late in life, and had a son who was 
the father of my old man. Not one of the three old men 
ever went out of Cornwall. There, I think I’ve told you 
enough funny stories for one evening. I must go now, 
for I see your grim and awful nurse stalking across the 
moor with slow and stately stalks. Good-night and 
good-bye. I’ll come to-morrow.” 

She pressed his fingers lightly. He kissed hers. And 
she went away laughing. 

The next day was wet. Beatrice appeared in a mackin- 
tosh and her nailed boots, with a woollen wrapper about 
her head and a letter in her hand. “ It’s come,” she 


200 


How Beatrice forgot to be frivolous. 

cried directly she entered the invalid’s room, “ your 
letter from Cranmere, post-marked Lydford.” 

** And I’ve got yours,” he answered. 

I came round early to save it from your clutches if it 
were possible,” she admitted. “ I would have torn it up. 
I couldn’t know you’d get it when you were lying blown 
up. Give it me.” 

No,” he said firmly. “ It is my first letter from you.” 
Then he read aloud : “ There’s an oak on the Dart which 
will drop the acorn that will grow the wood to make the 
cradle to rock the child who’ll become the man to 
marry me.” 

“ It refers to my next incarnation,” said Beatrice. 
” But if mine is folly, what is yours ? Yours is mere 
midsummer-mad poetry.” Then she read aloud in her 
turn — 

" Upon my trouth, I sey yow feithfully 
That ye ben of my lifife and deth the quene, 

For with my deth the trouth shal be sene. 

Your two eyn.” 

It’s wild and primitive and plaintive. It suits Cran- 
mere somehow,” she commented. 

“ I couldn’t think of anything else,” he pleaded. 

Those lines were running in my head. They are from 
the only known ballad of Chaucer. He knew Derty- 
more and the Dart, and very likely stood upon Cran- 
mere.” 

“You have given me a new exclamation,” Beatrice 
cried. “ Instead of saying, ‘ my stars ! ’ I shall say, ‘ my 
two eyn ! ’ ” 

“ Beatrice,” exclaimed the invalid, suddenly passionate, 
“ will you marry me ? ” 


201 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

** My two eyn ! It comes in useful at once,” she 
laughed. “That was just as sudden and frightful as the 
shell which played skittles with dummy and you. Why, 
the acorn hasn’t dropped from the tree yet ” 

“ Be serious for one minute, five seconds, and say 
yes,” he pleaded. 

“ I will be serious,” she said. She went down upon a 
stool and took his hand. “ I thought something was 
going to happen,” she went on, “ because I had a 
dream last night, and it was the most remarkable and 
unpleasant dream that has ever come to me. I thought 
I had done something wicked or foolish — I don’t know 
what it was — and after doing it I walked out on the side 
of the moor beside our house, and there I saw something 
growing among the furze-reek. I can’t tell you what it 
was or what it was like, because I do not know, but it 
frightened me. I knew it was the consequence of what 
I had done. That evening I went out again, and the 
thing had grown larger. All that night I could see it in 
the moonlight from my window, growing and growing. 
It became more and more dreadful, and I felt that a time 
would come when I should not even be able to look at it. 
That time, I thought, did come, and I awoke in a fright.” 

“ It was nothing but a new version of an old night- 
mare,” he said softly. 

“ Suppose we made a mistake, and some horrible thing 
did grow between us, like that thing among the furze- 
reek ? ” 

“ What could come between us } I should always love 
you. Mine would not be an ordinary love,” he urged. 

She hung down her head and said nothing. He went 
on pressing her. 


202 


How Beatrice forgot to be frivolous. 

“ Suppose,” she whispered, “ suppose that thing has 
begun to grow already ! ” 

“So there is something,” said Burrough miserably. 
“ What is it, Beatrice ? ” 

“ I can’t tell you,” she said. “ It’s horrid of me, but I 
can’t help it. Shall I go away and write it ? ” 

“ No ; tell me.” 

“ You would let me have my own way ? ” she went on ; 
“ you would let me be as free as ever ? ” 

He gave the promise at once, then went on urging 
her. 

“ Well, then, I must,” she said. “ I know how you 
feel towards me,” she added quickly ; “ but I don’t feel 
like that towards you — except, perhaps, just for a minute 
or two occasionally.” 

“ How could you ? ” he replied. “ I thought I should 
never dare to ask you until that night in the ruin when 
you were telling me the story of Tregeagle. Then I 
began to understand that love and loneliness conquer 
everything, even poverty and pride. The little god of 
love himself is poor, Beatrice. He has nothing but his 
arrows, and can only pay his debts with kisses.” 

“ I like you,” she said. “Ever since we were together 
in our little kingdom by the river I have liked you. I 
have never known a nicer companion than you. We 
should be happy, I think, on the moor together. You 
don’t understand the moor as I do ; it doesn’t call to you, 
and you don’t see under the furze and the griglans like I 
do, because you haven’t got my Cymrian blood. You 
would not be always my companion. You can come 
swaling with me, but you can’t come with me to see 
the little people. I know they don’t exist, yet I can 
203 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

find them when the wind comes moaning through the 
mist, just as all the West Welsh people have found them 
always.” 

“ Is that your difficulty — only that ? ” said Burrough 
eagerly. 

No, it is that accident,” she answered boldly. “ Can’t 
you guess ? ” 

“You are afraid I shall be disfigured?” he said, in a 
low voice, 

“ I am so fond of beauty,” she went on resolutely, 
“ and disfigurement in any form is a horror to me. A 
fisherman with a wooden leg used to live near us when I 
was a child, and whenever I saw him I would scream and 
run away. It's constitutional, I suppose, just as some 
people can’t bear to see a spider or come near a cat. I 
cannot help it. There ! I have told you,” she cried, as 
merrily as she dared, but without looking at him. 

“ The doctor will be coming presently ; I will ask him,” 
said Burrough, rather shakily. 

“ It may be all right,” Beatrice went on. 

“ It will not be all right,” he answered sadly. “ There 
must be a scar.” 

“ I wouldn’t mind that — not an honest scar — if the eye 
was all right. But a dreadful blank eye like the one 
Kellaway has ” 

She broke off, and he felt her shudder. 

“ I wish the doctor would come,” was all that Burrough 
could say. 

“ What do you think of me now ? ” said Beatrice 
wistfully. 

“ The same as ever,” he replied. “ Beatrice, you will 
answer, will you not ? Perhaps I shall not be so very 
204 


How Beatrice forgot to be frivolous. 

dreadful to you when the bandages come off. If I don’t 
frighten you then, if you think you can bear with me, if 
I am not likely to grow into the horrible thing of your 
dream, will you ? ” 

“ Oh, in that case,” laughed she, I really think I 
might be inclined to give the matter my serious con- 
sideration.” 

“ Beatrice,” he pleaded, “ no frivolity ! If I am not 
disfigured, what will you say ? ” 

She looked up then, full of laughter and nonsense, and 
called, ‘‘ Oh, yes, and that’s one time ; oh, yes, and 
that’s two times ; oh, yes, and that’s the third and last 
time.” 

She was kneeling beside him, and he held her firmly 
in his arms. 

‘‘You see,” he cried exultingly, “I am not mutilated; 
there’s no weakness.” 

Then, holding her, he bent low and murmured into 
her ear some of the nonsense she had taught him. 


205 


CHAPTER XIX. 


HOW BURROUGH SPOKE FOOLISHLY. 

It was late when the doctor came riding over the moor. 
Burrough had been employing the time in trying to 
extract information from his nurse, but that austere 
person remained as uncommunicative and mysterious as 
Peter himself, who had fallen under the ban of his 
master’s displeasure by glancing up with a disdainful 
expression and licking his paws in reply to questions. 
Directly the surgeon came in, with a brisk step and cheery 
remark, the invalid attacked him with the query which 
had been on and off his tongue since Beatrice’s 
departure. 

“ What is the extent of your injuries ? ” hummed and 
hawed the surgeon, who was a typical army man, kind 
and easy-going. My dear chap, don’t worry yourself ; 
you’re doing fine. I’m going to turn you out for a walk 
to-morrow, and send the nurse away, and knock you off 
the sick-list.” 

“ I know all about that. What I want you to tell me 
is, how am I going to look when these bandages are 
off ? ” Burrough interrupted, with more excitement than 
was good for him. 

“ How do you want to look, you young angel,” 
replied the surgeon, standing in front of the glass 
and arranging his moustache — ‘‘ like Narcissus — pink 
206 


How Burrough spoke foolishly. 

cheeks, snowy forehead, hyacinthine locks, and all that 
sort of thing ? Anyone would think you were a society 
beauty or a chorus-girl. Here you go stumbling into an 
exploding shell, which would have killed you if it had 
been made properly, and, instead of being grateful 
because you aren't in your grave, you bother me about 
your complexion." 

^‘Look here, doctor, I'm going to know the truth,” 
said Burrough earnestly. If you won’t tell me, I shall 
take these bandages off when you're gone and look at 
myself in the glass." 

‘‘ That's going to be your next move, is it ? ” said the 
other, with a short laugh. “ Well, my lad, let's have it 
over. I may as well tell you to-day as next week. That 
was a confounded nasty smack you had in the eye, and 
it's a bit of luck for you that the splinter didn't penetrate, 
as in nine cases out of ten it would have done. The 
whole affair was unlucky, of course ; but, seeing that it 
did happen, you have more to put on the credit side than 
on the other. You’re going to retain your health and 
strength, and if you’re not thankful for that you ought to 
be strapped up and horsewhipped.’’ 

“Thanks for breaking it gently," said Burrough 
grimly. 

“Well, the right temple is pretty badly knocked 
about ; and as for the eye, plenty of good fellows have 
managed with one, from Polyphemus to Dr. Johnson. 
Now don't worry yourself. You must fascinate the girls 
in future by your brilliance instead of with your beauty. 
You’ll do it with practice." 

“I shall look perfectly repulsive, then?" Burrough 
faltered, after a short silence. 

207 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ Yes, people will scream and take to their heels when 
they see you,” said the other sarcastically. “ My dear 
chap, you must have been prepared for this. Not many 
men who get in the way of an exploding shell escape at 
all. You won’t look much worse than that wall-eyed 
fellow in the village who helps to clear the ranges, and 
who ought, by the way, to have cleared you off that 
morning.” 

“Not much worse ! ” muttered Burrough, sarcastic in 
his turn. 

“ Lord bless you,” said the cheery surgeon, “ this 
little business may be as useful to you as the death of a 
maiden aunt. The War Office ought to come down 
handsome, as it’s a clear case of negligence on the part 
of its servants. Most of the Tommies would ask to be 
planed and pruned if it meant a few shillings a week 
pension for them. Cheer up, my lad ! It’s a stroke of 
good luck, if you will look at it in the right way.” 

For all these words of consolation, Burrough felt 
himself clinging as it were to the edge of the world, and 
longing to release his grip and drop into space. When 
the surgeon had gone he sat beside the open window and 
watched the sunshine on the moor. 

Only a few hours before he had kissed Beatrice’s warm 
fingers. Her mouth he could not ask to kiss with his 
head swathed in bandages. Had that kiss been the last ? 
An engraving of the Bathos by Hogarth was hanging 
beside his chair. It was the end of all things: dead 
Time, with his broken scythe and shivered hour-glass ; 
the broom worn to the stump, the cracked bell, the 
unstrung bow, and the wrecked ship ; the sun dead and 
the moon on the wane; the withered tree, the empty 
208 


How Burrough spoke foolishly. 

purse, the clock run down; and the painter’s palette 
broken. The horror of the last was upon Burrough then. 

“ King of Cats, come and talk to me,” he said, 
extending a hand towards his wholly unsympathetic 
companion. “ My day is over and the night has come, 
the night of bats and owls and everything that loves the 
dark. I’m a creature of the night now, a monster, an 
abnormity, a one-eyed abortion. If I were to present 
myself at the court of King Love I should be cast out 
headlong. The fairy-tale is over. King Peter. I thought 
I was the Prince, and I’m^nly the Ogre. I am the evil 
knight who has tried to carry off the Princess, and my 
eye has been poked out for my pains.” 

He could understand Beatrice’s horror of any per- 
manent physical blemish, such as a lost limb or an 
empty eye-socket. She was herself so perfect in health 
and strength; her mind looked for perfection in the 
things about her. The environment of folk-lore, with 
which she was fond of surrounding herself, contributed to 
this love of what was beautiful and complete. 

Burrough remembered that the doctor had given him 
permission to go out. He decided to walk in the 
direction of the village, thinking he might meet Beatrice, 
who would be anxious to hear the sentence that had 
been passed upon him. So he crawled out of the cottage 
for the first time since his accident, and walked slowly upon 
the moor, while Peter trotted beside him with tail erect. 

It was a beautiful evening and the moor w'as at its 
best, but Burrough was in no mood to enjoy peace and 
beauty then. He would almost have preferred a storm ; 
thunder crashing upon the tors, lightning blasting them, 
and wind to make them reel. He would have liked the 
p.p. 209 p 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

clouds to fall and a mist to cover him. If only the old 
stories were true, and there was a herb which would 
restore his battered features ! How diligently he would 
search the moor, inch by inch, until he had found it. It 
was too easy to dwell in the atmosphere of romance ; too 
difficult to face the realities of life. 

Burrough had seated himself upon a rock hardly more 
than a stone’s throw from his cottage, feeling already 
tired out ; while Peter was following the scent of a young 
rabbit in blissful anticipation of savoury meat. Burrough 
tried to comfort himself with the assurance that he could 
see as well as ever. He looked across the gorge of the 
river, and followed the heaving sky-line of the moor 
opposite. He could see the sparkling bog-water upon 
the slopes, and the vivid green patches of grass which 
decked the dangerous spots. He could detect also the 
lurid brilliancy of the flowering mosses, the crimson 
golden and grey sponges, which grew upon the bogs. 
He tried to persuade himself his single eye could actually 
make out the sundews and bog-violets lying upon the 
quaking surfaces beyond the gorge. Then he allowed 
his eye to wander along the sky-line, until it reached a 
rounded hill the sight of which sent a shiver through him. 
That hill was one of the frontiers of Cranmere, the high 
and barren region of river-heads which had been the 
indirect cause of all his suffering. 

Although evening was drawing on, the guns of the 
artillery were still thundering. Burrough could hear the 
furious hissing and sullen explosions of shells across the 
desolate waste, and he could see wisps of smoke floating 
or whirling between the tors. The sides of these tors 
were covered with white scars made by sundered granite, 
210 


How Burrough spoke foolishly. 

and some of Eastaway’s men, as small as dolls, were 
working there getting the last load of granite for the day, 
their crowbars ringing upon the blocks and striking wild 
mountain music. A fine sweet breeze was coming up 
the gorge of the river chasing a few low-lying clouds 
through the sunlight. 

There were hut circles upon the slopes opposite. 
Burrough knew where to look for them, as he had been 
there often, examining, measuring, and forming unsatis- 
factory theories regarding the race of beings who had 
occupied them. He knew as much about these savages 
as most people; and that was nothing. But he fell 
thinking, as he had often done, about them and their 
dwelling-places upon the treeless waste. What made 
them live upon the barren moor, exposed to storm and 
wind, when the fertile valleys were so near ? Perhaps it 
was because they regarded the moor as a god and 
believed themselves to be his children. A primitive 
people would naturally consider that the god of the hills 
was more powerful than the god of the valleys. Yet how 
did they live ? The moor gave them nothing but stones 
for their rude homes and peat for their hearths. It gave 
them no corn. It caught their cattle in its bogs. They 
did not leave the moor ; they were born upon it ; they 
were buried on it. They were horrible in their lives, 
these moorland savages, but magnificent in their funerals. 
They had tombstones of royal granite and the entire 
breadth of Dartmoor for burying-place. That was all 
the moor ever did for them. It starved them during 
their lifetime, but protected them when they were dead. 

“ Which is exactly what the world does to us now,” 
muttered Burrough cynically. 

2II 


p 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Hearing the clicking of horse-shoes he rose with the 
intention of returning to his cottage, because he was 
afraid to be seen by anyone. He had only made a few 
steps when the rider appeared, and he perceived it was a 
girl. He also perceived it was the only girl that the 
world possessed. It was Beatrice astride a grey horse, 
bare-headed and ungloved as usual, and laughing delight- 
fully. 

“Don’t run, poor wounded soldier,” she called. “I 
saw you a long way off, and I shouted, but you took no 
heed. Did you think I was a moorman rounding up 
cattle .? ” 

“ I wasn’t looking that way,” Burrough replied. 

His voice and manner told her there was something 
wrong. 

“I’ve always ridden man-fashion,” she went on lightly, 
as she reined in close beside him. “ It’s so much more 
natural and comfortable. And over this rough country 
it’s safer. I’m not going to get off, because it’s rather 
a nuisance mounting in this divided habit, and I can 
talk to you just as well up here. Now I want to hear all 
the news. Has the doctor been? And has he been 
saying nice kind things and making you purr ? ” 

Burrough could not answer her with the truth. He 
had been ready with the confession before she came ; 
but to look at her then with hair ruffled and loosening, 
her face flushed with the breeze, her eyes sparkling, and 
the distracting mouth half-open, questioning and eager, 
was to be unmanned at once. He could not lose her. 
Impelled by love and the thought of his loneliness, and 
careless of the consequence, he said, “There will be a 
mark.” 


212 


How Burrough spoke foolishly. 

“ Little or big ? ” said she. 

“ He doesn’t know yet how it will heal,” Burrough 
floundered on. 

“ But the eye ? How will that be.? Will it be dotted ? ” 
she laughed. 

“ Not badly. I am sure there won’t be much of a 
mark — just a scar, a small scar, and even that may wear 
away as time goes on. You see the splinter struck above 
the eye, never really touching it at all, and glanced off 
without making a deep wound. I’m not so badly 
knocked about as you think. When the bandages come 
off you won’t see any very great difference. I am certain 
you won’t. Just a red line across my forehead, and that’s 
all.” 

Burrough spoke quickly, almost incoherently, and 
stammered. more than once. He was on his trial, plead- 
ing for his happiness at the Court of Love. He forgot 
how foolishly he was speaking, how that the time would 
come for him to remove the bandage, and reveal his 
battered features. Words would not avail him then. A 
glance would tell her he had been lying. Her affection 
for him, and even her sympathy, might well be alienated 
by his deceit. 

His one idea was to keep her, to have her with him, to 
enjoy the right of holding her hand and kissing her 
fingers. If he could only keep her for another week he 
felt he would not have lied in vain. She would be his 
until the bandages were taken off, and then it would be 
time enough to think of going to the end of the world and 
dropping off into space. 

“Because I laugh you musn’t think I don’t care,” 
Beatrice said. “ It’s no use being tragic over things, and 
213 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Tm sure you’re serious enough for two. I’m really 
dreadful sorry. I just wandered away that morning because 
I wanted to be alone on the moor. I was sure you 
would wake up and follow me. But you lay a-thinking, 
and a-dreaming, and a-playing at targets. As I was 
your guardian I shouldn’t have left you. It was partly 
my fault you were damaged, and I’m sorry, and to show 
you I’m sorry I promise I won’t mind that scar.” 

“ You mean it, Beatrice ? ” he whispered eagerly, 
clasping the little foot which was resting in the stirrup 
nearest him. “ You are not laughing now ? ” 

“ I have promised,” said the girl seriously. “ No, 
don’t — don’t kiss my boot. It’s horrid, and people may 
see. You are silly this evening. That splinter must 
have gone into your brain after all. What are you doing.? 
Please don’t eat the lace off my petticoat. Well, if you 
must kiss something here's my hand, only let me have it 
back again.” 

Burrough had lost his senses just then and was behav- 
ing unwisely. The little god of Hope, who had departed 
with the surgeon, came back with a great fluttering of 
wings and settled once more upon the roof of the cottage. 

There was a chance after all, if he could accustom 
Beatrice gradually to the change in him. She was pre- 
pared to tolerate a certain amount of disfigurement. She 
was ready to meet him half-way. She had admitted she 
was partly to blame for the catastrophe. He would not 
have admitted it, but was very glad she had done so. 
Leaning against the horse, with her foot in one hand, and 
her fingers in the other, he could only murmur again and 
again those words he had so often inwardly expressed — ■ 
“ You are sweet, Beatrice. You are sweet.” 

214 


How Burrough spoke foolishly. 

“ When I was a child, such as you are now, I used to 
be told it was bad manners to speak with my mouth full,” 
said the girl. “ If you would take my hand out of your 
mouth . . 

“ That night we were in the ruin ...” he began ; 
but she resisted feebly. 

“ My hand is not a relic, neither is my foot. They 
are not necessary as incentives to devotion.” 

“I have a reliquary in my bedroom,” he said with 
unrestrained boyish ardour. “ It contains hairpins, 
buttons, withered flowers, cigarette-ends.” 

“ And folly and madness,” she finished. “ Do you want 
my precious toes too for your reliquary? You shall not 
have them.” 

“ But they are mine, all the perfect ten of ihem.” 

“ Nine,” she mumured with a gasp of mirth. “ Tve had 
an accident with one — don't pinch ! Not on that foot.” 

‘‘ That's a disfigurement,” he said exultingly. “ It is, 
Beatrice.” 

“No, it’s only the nail, and that's growing again. It 
will soon be perfect, and nicer than ever — brand new. 
There is not a mark upon me, not even a freckle. Tm 
a lamb without blemish. There! let me ride on.” 

“ Not yet,” he prayed. “ What was I going to say ? I 
forget when I look at you.” 

“ With its one poor eye,” said she. 

“ But the other is there,” he cried painfully. “ It’s only 
hidden. Wait until it heals, and you will say I am no 
worse. Beatrice 1 don’t go. I hate to see you go. You 
might not come back.” 

“ And then there would be the dull thud of a falling 
body in the gorge and a notice, ‘ Cottage to let.’ Certainly 

215 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

I must go, and as certainly I will return. I swear it by all 
the little saints of Cornwall, St. Piran, St. Issey, and St. Ive, 
though I don’t suppose they were much better than you 
and L I will come to-morrow, sun, mist or mud. It’s all 
the same to me. It's only a question of boots or shoes.” 

“ I know what I was going to say. That night in the 
ruin, when you were telling me about Tregeagle.” 

“ And you were wondering what my ear was made of.” 

“ I found a key — the key of Paradise.” 

How nice for you. May I come too ? ” 

“ To-day I felt it slip out of my hand. I lost it,” he 
went on, in the same excited voice. “ I thought it was 
gone for ever. And then you came along, and picked it 
up, and gave it back to me. ’ 

Take care of it, my child,” said she. Hang it on 
your watch-chain.” 

“ It is safe in my heart,” he whispered. 

“ You’re hopeless quite.” 

“ I can’t lose it now.” 

“ There is going to be a moon to-night, a great round 
white moon,” said Beatrice, “ I charge you not to go 
walking in its light. Else you may stumble over the 
granite, and fall on your face, and instead of being one- 
eye you will be no-eye ; and then it will be no use my 
coming to-morrow as you wouldn’t see me. And now, 
having spoken out of our wisdom and loving-kindness 
we will depart.” 

“ To-morrow we will go down to Blissland,” he said, 
with the warmth and eagerness which had not been 
allowed time to die down. “ We will sit in the granite 
chair which you called the Menacuddle. Why did you 
call it Menacuddle ? ” 


216 


How Burrough spoke foolishly. 

“ On the same principle that my parents followed 
when they decided to call me Beatrice. They thought 
it would suit me. You couldn’t imagine me by any 
other name ? ” 

“ Not by any under heaven except Beatrice,” he 
replied fervently. 

“ Menacuddle is really the name of a well near St. 
Austell, and it means the hawk’s stone. It was your 
wicked mind which added the sentiment.” 

“ And yours which named it,” he said triumphantly. 

Don’t you see I’m going ? My horse is moving. 
Good-night.” 

“ To-morrow we go to Blissland. I’m quite strong. 
I can easily walk there. And then we can have a long 
rest.” 

“ Let go ! Good-night again. There ! Now let me 
have my poor foot. Not Blissland to-morrow. It’s too 
soon. Not until the bandages come off.” 

He let her go then, and she trotted off gaily waving a 
farewell. Burrough turned towards his cottage with the 
sound which was to become haunting in his ears, the 
sound of horse-shoes clicking upon granite. And as he 
entered the door the little god of Hope, who had been 
perched upon the roof, shook himself, and spread his 
wings, and flew away in the direction of the clicking 
horse-shoes. 


CHAPTER XX. 


HOW THEY SEARCHED FOR WHITE HEATHER. 

The first beauty of the moor is young bracken, gorse 
is the second, and the third and best is heather. It was 
out at last, the pink heather, making the slopes rosy ; 
so Beatrice proposed an expedition. They would climb 
up the great wet mountain called Cawsand, and search 
for white heather. 

Burrough was quite strong again. He could walk any 
distance. He was no longer an invalid ; the nurse had 
gone, and the doctor s visits were few and far between. 
But he still wore the bandage, not because it was neces- 
sary, but because he did not dare to remove it. He had 
looked into the glass and seen the extent of his disfigure- 
ment, and straightway the last hope had gone. What 
would Beatrice say, Beatrice who had fled in terror from 
the fisherman with the wooden leg ? And yet he could 
not tell her. He must keep her as long as he could. 
He continued his deceit, telling her the bandage was still 
necessary, promising it should come off soon, assuring 
her that the injury was only slight. He declared that his 
eye was not yet strong enough to bear the light. 

“ It’s no use keeping your head wrapped up,” the 
surgeon had said. “ You want to get the sun and air 
upon your face, but I suppose it’s no good talking. 
You’re too jolly conceited to go about and show yourself, 


How They searched for White Heather. 

Talk about the vanity of women ! Why, I believe some 
of our chaps spend half their time before the looking- 
glass, and I know from experience what a business 
there is if one gets a scratch on the face. They’ll take 
a body wound gladly, and ask for more — but a scar on 
the face, even if you want a magnifying glass to see it, 
knocks ’em over at once. They think they are spoilt for 
the girls, though they wouldn’t admit it under torture. 
We don’t confess our weaknesses to one another; but 
the truth of the matter is we’re always thinking of the 
girls, and they’re always thinking of us, and that’s the 
way of the world and always will be.” 

Burro ugh had a good many troubles just then. His 
pen had been idle since his first meeting with Beatrice, 
and his bank account was dwindling at an unpleasant 
speed. He was not in a position to afford a summer of 
idleness. His love affair had not stimulated his brain, 
nor had it stirred his mind. On the contrary, it had 
acted as a drug. It had sent him into a blissful 
slumber, which had been rudely dispelled by the 
explosion of the shell and the destruction of his personal 
attractions. 

Beatrice did not appear to be in a very good humour 
when they started upon their tramp. She was becoming 
suspicious, although he did not know it. She wanted 
him to bring his face from its state of partial eclipse that 
she might behold the full light of his countenance. His 
unwillingness to do so, even for a moment, was not 
satisfactory. Her aunt had instilled a certain amount of 
distrust into her mind. There was also a good deal of 
gossip in the village concerning Burrough. The drift 
of it was that the unfortunate gentleman could not be 
219 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

expected to uncover his face, as it was certain a consider- 
able portion had been shot away. How did they know ? 
It was common talk among the artillerymen. The 
sergeants had told them, and the officers had told 
the sergeants, and the doctor had told the officers. 
Miss Pentreath was not Burrough’s ally. She would 
have married him herself gladly, but she did not want 
Beatrice to do so. He was not good enough for 
Beatrice, who could pick and choose; and she had a 
horror of the girl going away and leaving her to wither 
into the last stage of discontent. Beatrice liked her 
aunt, and to a certain extent was influenced by her. She 
knew no reliance could be placed upon the utterances of 
Mrs. Cobbledick and Son ; and yet their talk made an 
impression upon her. It was insistent, and any rumour 
which is repeated constantly without being satisfactorily 
disproved comes at last to bear a decided impress of 
truth. 

They went down the gorge and crossed the river by 
means of the boulders in its bed, and began to climb 
over the masses of rock beyond. The heather covered 
the slopes above them with a soft pink mantle, the nap 
of which was ruffled by the breeze. 

“ You are unusually silent,” Burrough said presently, 
as they worked their way round a bog. 

“ I am thinking,” said Beatrice. I am thinking and 
climbing, and I can’t do more than two things at the 
same time.” 

“ I like to hear you talk and laugh,” he replied, in the 
somewhat dull voice which he had adopted lately. 

“ Well, then, I will. I’ll tell you something, and stop 
thinking. We are going away in two weeks. This day 
220 


How They searched for White Heather. 

fortnight we shall be packed and making for home, for 
my Cornish cliffs and cleaves, and Dartmoor will see us 
no more for another year.” 

Burrough did not like her tone. There was a sugges- 
tion of detachment from himself, a sort of hint that she 
was free to come and go as she pleased, and that his 
claim upon her was a matter of slight importance. He 
braced himself to reply. 

“ You will let me come — before long ? ” 

Beatrice picked up a stone, flung it into the mossy 
bog, and watched it slowly disappear. Then she turned, 
seated herself upon a block of granite, and looked up. 

“ We’ve had a jolly time together,” she said. “ You 
entered so thoroughly into my moods from the first, 
though you may have thought them stupid and childish, 
and I liked you for it. Somehow I never thought you were 
going to fall in love with me. I wanted you to treat me as 
a boy. But you wouldn’t. You would remember I am 
a girl. And I got to like it — I do like it. We’ve been 
like lovers, and really I haven’t been flirting — worse than 
usual,” she added, with the old laugh. “ I like you 
better than any man I have ever known.” 

“Beatrice, why are you telling me this.? You are 
preparing me for something.? ” he said moodily. 

“ Yes, I don’t want things to go too far. I am dis- 
appointed,” she hurried on. “You have promised me 
day after day to take off that ugly bandage, and you don’t 
do it. That is not fair upon me. I’m going to keep to 
my word. I don’t disbelieve you, of course I don’t, but 
still you cannot know what affects me, and though the 
mark upon your face may not be very much, as you say 
it isn’t, it maybe more than I can bear. Just one glance 
221 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

would tell me, I expect, whether I could get used to it or 
not. Now, don’t think me very horrid. I could not get 
over my repugnance for anything really ugly and 
unpleasant. Even that bandage worries me more than 
you can think. You remember that dream of mine? 
The ugly thing that kept on growing and growing until I 
couldn’t bear to look at it. Now, then, let’s run on and 
find the white heather,” she said, with a complete change 
of tone and manner. “ That’s sermon enough, only 
remember you mustn’t say ‘ to-morrow ’ any more.” 

She jumped oif the rock, and from that moment was 
her bright, frivolous self again. Burrough followed 
without speaking. The quest of the white heather had 
lost its charm. For a moment he contemplated remov- 
ing the bandage and finishing the story ; but he could 
not. Not in that strong pitiless sunshine which would 
exaggerate every detail. He must choose a subdued 
light. While Beatrice was still with him he could not 
give up hope. She had not begun to pity him yet. 
When she had been given time to realise the loneliness 
of his life and his love for her she might find herself able 
to contemplate that disfigurement for which she was to a 
certain extent responsible. 

“ The best white heather grows on the far side of 
the Artillery Range,” said Beatrice, “ where we 
can’t go. There used to be some along the side of this 
shoulder.” 

They tramped and climbed, with their eyes fixed upon 
the dwarf gorse and the endless beds of pink, but they 
found no white heather, and somehow this seemed to 
Burrough the culminating stroke of ill-fortune. At 
length Beatrice gave a cry. She was kneeling among 
222 


How They searched for White Heather. 

the heather and had parted a thick tuft. She pointed in 
triumph to something that was within. 

“ Won’t that do ? ” she called. 

Burrough came up. He looked into the hole that her 
hands had made, and perceived a somewhat pale and 
ghastly sprig of bloom, which was certainly white, but a 
ghostly and unnatural white. 

“ It will not do,” he said. 

** Why not? It’s the right colour. I’m going to pick 
it anyhow, and wear it, and fancy it’s the real thing.” 

“ You can’t wear it,” Burrough said, a trifle bitterly. 
“ It’s a little freak, an abortion — ^just the very thing you 
hate.” 

“ It’s pretty,” she declared. 

“ It’s a fraud and a delusion,” Burrough went on, 
mentally comparing himself to the unhealthy looking 
sprig. “ It’s pink heather really. It has become bleached 
by being shut in so that the light couldn’t reach it. If 
you pick it you will see it gradually becoming pink in the 
sunshine — blushing with shame at its deceit.” 

“ I’ll leave it,” said Beatrice. “ It shan’t blush for me. 
Do things turn white when they are always in the dark ? ” 

“ Flowers do,” he replied. ” It is the sun which 
colours them, and the stronger the sun the richer the 
colour. In winter the flowers are white. In early spring 
they are pale yellow or pale blue. Then the sun becomes 
powerful and we get the high colours.” 

“ And yet people believe they can live out of the sun- 
shine,” Beatrice cried. “ They think it healthy to be 
bleached like this poor little sprig of heather. I’ll trample 
the bush down so that it will get some sunshine. Why 
can’t people be sensible and learn they want sun and rain 
223 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

and wind upon them, day and night, just as the flowers 
want them? Just think of all the people working now in 
slums and shops and offices, out of the air and sunshine, 
getting white and sickly like this poor little bit of heather, 
which ought to have been pink but couldn’t be, because 
it was smothered. I should like to take them all, and 
drop them here upon the moor, and say, ‘ Get pink, you 
idiots ! Get pink ’ ! ” 

“Don’t call them idiots,” said Burrough gently. 
“ Many cannot help themselves.” 

“ They can,” she cried. “ They prefer the smokes 
and smuts to the wind and sunshine. I dare say this bit 
of heather has been chuckling to itself, because it was 
inside the bush. It didn’t care about the dark. It didn’t 
care about being pale and sickly. It was better than 
being cut to pieces by the wind. That’s what it says, the 
idiot. I think I’ll pull it to pieces. Yes, people are 
idiots,” she went on, having worked herself into quite a 
pretty state of indignation. “ Our villagers go away 
because they want to get bleached in a nice dark slum. 
They leave the cliffs and moors because they hate them — 
idiots : they hate the granite, the gorse, the bracken, the 
wind, and sun, and sea ; and they pine for the smokes 
and smuts, the fog, the stench, the filth of a dark room, 
in a warm court, up an airless slum, in a sunless town.” 

Beatrice had dropped upon the heather and was lying 
in a bath of pink foam supporting herself upon her elbow. 
She did not look at her companion much, because she 
could not help thinking him rather an eyesore with that 
ugly bandage twisted about his head, and covering the 
upper part of his face leaving only the left eye visible. 
She disliked herself for the thought, but there was no 
224 


How They searched for White Heather. 

resisting it. Decidedly he was ugly and somewhat out of 
place upon that heather-strewn slope of moor. 

“ Are we going any further ? ” asked Burrough, when 
he saw she did not seem inclined to move. 

‘‘We shan’t find the white heather. It’s too early in 
the year. Let’s sit here and bathe in flowers and sun- 
shine. I think the air upon Dartmoor is the finest in the 
world — even better than that upon Trendreen Hill. There 
the air is rather too salt. Here it’s sweet with heather 
and gorse, with just a suspicion of the sea. I should 
like to die like this, up near the clouds, upon a bed of 
heather in full bloom, with the sun beating full upon me. 
I should feel that I was going to join the pixies.” 

“ I believe your Kingdom of Heaven is the Cornish 
coast,” Burrough remarked, with a rather dreary smile. 

“I don’t ask for anything better,” she said. “But 
I’m going to see the world change before I become a 
pixy. I have made up my mind to live until I’m well 
over a hundred. I think I shall do it. It’s nonsense 
people saying they don’t want to live to a great age. 
They go on saying it until they reach their last illness, 
and then it’s everything they possess for just one more 
day in this lovely world. I come of a long-lived family. 
I’m a descendant of Dolly Pentreath, who was the last to 
speak the Cornish language. My father died young, but 
that was owing to a fall from his horse. He was a 
parson, you know,” she went on, admitting her com- 
panion for the first time into family secrets. “ There 
wasn’t a finer sportsman in Cornwall, and he kept a 
curate to do the work.” 

Burrough had settled himself beside her, but he was 
not so near as he might have been. He had an 

p.p. 225 Q 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

uncomfortable feeling that she was making conversation 
to entertain him. She was being kind because she was 
sorry for him. She was not finding any actual pleasure 
in his society. He could not venture upon any of those 
overt acts of love, the sight of which disturbed Miss 
Pentreath so greatly. He was in an equivocal position. 
He remembered how she had recently exposed the sprig 
of disfigured heather to the light, and then had destroyed 
it as being unfitted to survive. He knew he was about to 
expose his features to the light before her, and he won- 
dered whether she would use him as she had used the 
heather. 

“You are not attending to my words,” Beatrice said, 
lifting her head indolently. “ I am wasting them upon 
the moorland air. I will speak no more.” 

“ Then it’s my turn,” Burrough said, rousing himself 
from thought, and trying to imagine that the little god of 
Hope was on his way back. “ If you will sit up a little 
and lean forward ” 

“ I won’t sit up, neither will I lean forward,” said she. 

“Just for a minute,” he pleaded. 

“ No, nor yet for a second, nor for any vulgar fraction 
of the same.” 

“ You are idle,” he reproved her. “ You ought to be 
ashamed ” 

“ I am. I blush for my idleness. But I’d rather blush 
and be ashamed than sit up.” 

“ Then I must describe what I want you to look at. 
What can you see from there ? ” 

“The firmament, two larks, and a big feather-bed 
cloud,” said she. 

“ If you were to turn over,” he suggested. 

226 


How They searched for White Heather. 

‘‘Well, then! Now I behold ponies, as big as toy 
terriers, upon the side of Cawsand. I hear the river 
dashing below in its everlasting hurry. And I feel a bit 
of heather tickling my nose.” 

“ If you were to sit up ” 

“ Which is declined.” 

“ You would see round the curve of the shoulder,” he 
went on. “You would see into the cleave, and up the 
gorge, and at the end of all things my little stone cot.” 

“ Like a star at the end of a telescope,” she said. “ I 
can imagine it. Someone said you ought to be sent to 
prison for six months as a punishment for building such 
a thing to the eternal detriment of the landscape.” 

“ Could you imagine yourself there ? ” he asked. 

“ Not in the least,” she laughed. “ It’s much too 
small for a person of my expanding spirits.” 

“ I have tried to make it nice,” he said somewhat 
plaintively. “I painted the interior myself, and I chose 
white and green for the sitting-room, because nothing 
looks better, and I thought it might please somebody else 
one day. The big bedroom is in white and blue, and I 
painted bunches of forget-me-nots upon the door-panels. 
You haven’t seen that room. It’s never been occupied 
yet. I was keeping it ” 

“ I have seen it,” said Beatrice quickly. “ I roamed 
about the place when you were blown up.” 

“ Did you like it ? ” 

“Yes, it’s pretty, and such a contrast stepping off the 
moor into a snuggery.” 

“ Then I planted bushes and creepers, but they don’t 
get much chance owing to the winds. Still, I’ve got 
some honeysuckles in flower, and the ivy is creeping up 
227 Q 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

the walls. It’s so lonely there. In winter it’s too wild, 
and in summer too quiet. In November the wind is 
always rushing across the moor, and the water roaring 
down the gorge beneath my windows. Then the rains 
come, and bring down cart-loads of sand and gravel ; 
and the woodwork swells until not a door or window will 
shut, and they flap and bang day and night. And 
Peter and I sit and listen, and wonder what is coming 
next.” 

Don’t you have any romances ? ’’ said Beatrice, who 
was feeling uncomfortable. “ Don’t you ever hear knocks 
and noises ? ” 

“ Plenty. The wind cries and calls, and the ponies 
come down to find shelter and kick at my door.” 

‘‘ They’re not all ponies,” said the girl blithely. “ The 
little people are sorry for you, and they come round some- 
times to invite you to one of their parties. You should go 
with them, and if you are nice, they might show you 
where to find the crocks of gold.” 

“ Sometimes during the long winter evenings, I feel as 
though I could imagine anything,” he said. 

“ Do let’s be cheerful,” cried Beatrice, as she began to 
rise from her bed of heather in unpleasant apprehension 
of what might be coming. ‘‘We are hooting at each 
other like a pair of owls. ‘ Tu-whit ’ says you, ‘ Tu-whoo’ 
says I. We haven’t found any white heather, but we 
haven’t looked very furiously.” 

Her voice died away into a gasp, and Burrough look- 
ing round saw that her face was pale. Her eyes were 
strained upon him, and there was fear in them, and 
something which was rather more unpleasant than fear ; 
her lips were tight together, and her chin quivered. 
228 


How They searched for White Heather. 

Then she withdrew her gaze from him, and he fancied 
she did so with a shudder. 

“ Why ! what’s the matter ? ” he exclaimed. 

“ Ough ! the beastly thing,” said Beatrice rather 
unsteadily. “It must have been a viper. It glided just 
by my hand.” 

As she spoke Burrough felt the wind blowing upon 
his face, and it seemed to him cold. In a moment 
he realised that the sensation was caused by the breeze 
touching his face upon that part of it which had been 
covered. He put up his hand. The bandage had 
slipped down. 

Beatrice began to talk some wild nonsense, but her 
tongue soon flagged. Then she declared she could see 
her aunt walking beside the leat which conveyed water 
to the village, and she thought she would like to run 
across and join the lonely lady. 

“Our paths lie in opposite directions,” she said 
somewhat significantly. “ I can just catch auntie if I run. 
Good-bye. I’m sorry we haven’t found any white heather. ” 

Burrough said nothing until she turned to go. He 
had readjusted the bandage as well as he could. He 
was glad that she had discovered the truth. But when 
he saw she was about to leave him the horror of the past 
came upon him again, and he dreaded lest she might be 
leaving him for ever. 

“ May I see you this evening ? ” he faltered. “ After 
dark. And then . . . .” 

He broke off, not knowing how to finish. 

“ It will be light,” Beatrice said. “ There’s still a 
moon. Yes, walk towards the village about nine. I’ll 
meet you upon Brynamoor.” 

229 


CHAPTER XXL 


HOW THEY WENT INTO THE COPSE. 

When Burrough came into his lonely cottage the first 
thing that struck him was the silence. Usually the wind 
was sighing and moaning ; the water was roaring down 
the gorge beneath his windows. Inside two clocks were 
ticking and chattering like a pair of magpies ; and Peter 
Grimalkin, Crown Prince of Cats, was purring upon the 
lounge. But there was not a sound that evening. 
There was not even a breeze upon the moor, not enough 
to make a moan. There was scarcely any water coming 
down the gorge, certainly far too little to raise a roar. 
The clocks had stopped, which was only natural, as 
Burrough had forgotten to wind them. Peter, generally 
over-punctual to meals, was absent, having left the im- 
pression of his body upon a cushion as a sort of hint he 
would return anon. The silence and loneliness were 
together more than Burrough could endure. He went 
out, leaned against his favourite rock, and presently 
began to offer serious advice to that portion of his 
personality which was inclined to break out into revolt. 
“ Now, look here, old chap,” he said, addressing the top 
of his boot. ‘‘ You’ve been making a fool of yourself 
lately, and you’ve been knocked out. No more weak- 
ness. Sit up straight and take your punishment like a 
little man. Beatrice is not for you. She’s been very 
230 


How They went into the Copse. 

kind and nice — I won’t say she hasn’t flirted a bit, but 
that’s her way — and she’s given you more happiness than 
you deserved ; and now — well, now she’s going away, and 
you’ve got to stop here and make a living. I warned you 
right along you had no chance. There’s all the difference 
in the world between a gentleman on granite and a gentle- 
man on clover. You’re on the granite, and always will be, 
and she’s on the clover. If you hadn’t been broken up 
by that shell it would have been just the same. You 
were a miserable creature to try and deceive her, and of 
course she’s angry, and would naturally hate you, even 
if you weren’t more than twice as ugly as wall-eyed 
Kellaway. You’ll get over this all right, and settle 
down the same as ever. It’s only a weak fool who 
permits his life to be spoilt by a love affair. You must 
remember that love, matrimony, companionship, are 
merely incidents of life. What a man does, his work, 
his actions, his influence — those make up his life.” 

This was very sound philosophy, and suited Burrough’s 
case admirably. He went on to assure himself that if 
Beatrice were to become his they would soon grow tired 
of one another ; they might even quarrel, and separate 
in mutual disgust. Of course he wanted her, but that 
was not so much because he loved her, as because she 
was beyond him. He was so convinced that Beatrice 
had not been intended for him in any case, that he 
searched for Peter to impart the information to that 
indifferent creature. Peter, however, was in none of his 
usual haunts. 

Burrough decided he might feel lonely presently. 
There was always his work, which he had neglected for 
so long. He would devote himself in earnest to that, 

231 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

now that he had burst all the bubbles of pleasure within 
reach. He had finished the frivolous chapter of his life. 
The next chapter was to be solid work. There is 
nothing a man cannot accomplish by hard work. To- 
morrow — Avanti ! Stones and sermons. The granite 
of Dartmoor should yield gold. The primitive structures 
of the moor should be dealt with as they had never been 
before. He would run up the gamut of stone-age 
architecture from menhir and dolmen to the beehive 
hut. And the answer of a gratified public would be the 
answer of the commoner, who was accused of destroying 
a cromlech to make the wall of his new-take. What’s 
the good of ’en ? The Almighty put they stoanes there 
for use. So I cracked ’en up and used ’en.” That 
commoner was a member of the public. He had no 
reverence for cromlech or hut circle. He had the 
practical side of life to attend to, so he cracked ’en 
up and used ’en.” The public in general have a senti- 
mental side, but stone-memorials do not enter into it. 
They would say of Burrough’s book, more elegantly, 
perhaps, but none the less shrewdly, “ What’s the good 
of ’en?” 

Burrough felt proud of himself. He was displaying 
courage, self-restraint, and determination. He had 
made up his mind to forget Beatrice, and had no doubt 
he would succeed. Still he felt lonely; so he walked 
about the furze-bushes and stone-clatters, calling for 
Peter ; and receiving no answer he went indoors, lighted 
his stove, wound up his clocks, and reflected that “ making 
happy ” was the literal meaning of the name Beatrice. 

Evening came at last, warm and cloudy. A silvery 
light above the tors hinted at the presence of the moon 
232 


How They went into the Copse. 

behind the canopy. The heather ceased to blush, and 
the bloom of the gorse became misty. A nightjar down 
the gorge appeared to imagine itself a blacksmith, and 
made horrible noises accordingly. The last cartload of 
peat had jolted in from bogland. The stone-yard was 
silent, and the workers were gathered together in East- 
away’s bar-room to sing ballads with the moormen. 
Burrough heard them singing as he made his way towards 
Brynamoor. 

There was pure white mountain mist hanging along 
the cleave. The lonely watcher could see the undulating 
lines of the high moor on one side, and on the other 
portions of the tors like mediaeval castles lying in ruins. 
It was hard to believe that misty fabric was composed of 
immense granite blocks piled one above the other. 
Those blocks were faint pencillings upon the sky. The 
upper part of the moor was a cloud, a creation of moist 
air — but a breeze passed, the mist was shaken out like 
the folds of a robe, then settled into a filmy sheet, 
blending substance with shadow, melting the granite 
masses into ghost-clouds. As Burrough walked on, 
another change occurred. The moon appeared, and in 
a moment nothing that was indefinite remained. The 
village sycamores cast lace-like shadows. The lines 
became sharp, the rugged outlines of ruined tors were 
clear-cut. There was no sense of mystery. The mist 
had been poetical, the silvery glow sentimental ; but there 
was something cold and pitiless about the moonlight. 

Two figures wandered upon Brynamoor. Beatrice 
had brought her aunt, for which kindly act the little lady 
was grateful. She enjoyed being with her niece. It 
made her feel young; also it made her feel wicked. “ I 
233 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

shall have to bail you out of the police-court some day,” 
Beatrice had said to her relative, during an evening’s 
diversion in London, when the little lady, conscious that 
no one knew her, had announced her intention “ to 
persevere in dissipation for the rest of the night.” 

Beatrice was pale, frightened, unhappy, when she saw 
Burrough approaching. She had already forgiven his 
deceit, which was in a manner complimentary to her. 
She admired his courage when she perceived that he had 
at last removed his bandage. But one glance at his 
terribly disfigured features was sufficient. It was worse 
even than she had feared. He made a terrifying spec- 
tacle in the moonlight. That light which idealised her 
own bizarre face added deformity to his. She felt the same 
kind of shrinking dread which the one-legged fisherman 
had inspired her with as a child. 

“ That Mr. Burrough ! How shocking I ” Miss Pen- 
treath whispered. 

Burrough came up and joined them. He saw Beatrice 
shrink slightly, and avert her eyes when she greeted him, 
so he turned the brim of his hat to conceal his damages, 
and placed himself at her right hand ; while Miss Pen- 
treath simpered something about the moonlight, and said 
she wished very much she could recall some poetry she 
had learnt in her — at least a year or so ago. 

“ Shall we go into the copse ? ” Beatrice suggested, 
nodding in the direction of a gate set within the stone 
hedge. 

“ Certainly not. There are snakes, and things that 
creep, jump, and bite,” cried Miss Pentreath. “Besides, 
it’s muddy, and I have on my thin shoes and lace 
stockings.” 


234 


How They went into the Copse. 

“ I want to go and pick flowers. I like picking them 
by moonlight,” the girl went on. “ They are all alike by 
this light; you can only distinguish them by smell. 
Don’t you like the smell of wild flowers ? ” she asked 
Burrough, but without looking up at him. 

“ They smell of the open air,” she cried when he had 
answered in the affirmative. “ I hate the smell of culti- 
vated flowers; they smell of disinfectants and hospitals.” 

“ This girl runs wild when she finds the first primrose,” 
said Miss Pentreath. 

“It’s the first sign of spring,’’ Beatrice explained. 
“Every winter I have a horrible dread lest by some 
terrible accident there should be no spring or summer. 
When I see the first primrose I know we’re all right ; so 
I pounce upon it and eat it.” 

“ Why do you eat it ? ” asked Burrough in his grave, 
low voice. 

“Primitive instinct, I suppose. It’s my way of ex- 
pressing supreme satisfaction. If you will wait here five 
minutes,” Beatrice went on, pinching her aunt’s arm 
slily, “ Mr. Burrough and I will go into the copse, as I 
must and will have a handful of the white orchids, which, 
if gathered by moonlight, are a sure protection against 
evil-eye, convulsions, change of weather, and a host of 
other things — a sort of pixy patent-medicine, in fact. Sit 
you here, auntie, and think of your sins, while I go to 
secure the means of rendering myself proof against the 
spells and enchantments of all the black witches between 
Tamar and Sennen Cove.” 

“ But I don’t like stopping here by myself,” protested 
the little lady. 

“Bogey won’t run away with you,” laughed Beatrice. 

235 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ I shan’t be gone more than five minutes — which may 
mean a quarter of an hour. If you see or hear anything 
frightful, light the furze. When I see the glow 1 will 
run.” 

“ Suppose I’m bitten by a viper ? ” 

“ Bite him back, dear,” cried Beatrice, and ran to join 
Burrough, who was pacing moodily towards the hedge 
with its mantle of ferns and stonecrop. 

He swung open the gate. Beatrice slipped through, 
and, lifting her short skirts, hurried across the rough 
ground as though she desired to escape from him. 
When he turned from the gate she was a dozen yards 
in front. He hurried after her, and, with a laugh, she 
began to run. She jumped a water-course and sped 
on, and was actually gaining upon him, when she stopped 
short, made some strange movements, and then began 
to hop with one foot off the ground. 

“ I’m beaten,” she called. “ What chance have we 
who run in skirts ? I’ve been and kicked my foot 
through the flounce of my petticoat.” 

There was a gnarled oak close by, so she hopped 
thrice, and, leaning against it, disengaged her foot. 
Some inches of flimsy white material fluttered about 
the grass, and she tried to tear it off, but failed ; so, 
looking up with a laughing face, she begged for a knife. 

As Burrough approached she put out her hands 
suddenly. 

“ I must say it at once — I’m sorry, so sorry,” she said, 
softly. ‘‘I know why you didn’t tell me now. You 
thought it might turn out better than it has done. I am 
so sorry. I can’t think of anything else to say. But we 
shouldn’t have blended, perhaps. Here, lend me your 
236 


How They went into the Copse. 

knife, please. It’s all right, isn’t it ? I’m not Beatrice — 
I was only Beatrice for a little — ^the evening we went 
swaling and that night in the ruin. The rest of the time 
I was Bill. I wanted to be Bill always, only you wouldn’t 
let me. I am Bill now, and you are Jack. We were at 
school together, you know. Don’t you remember how 
we used to cheek the masters ? ” 

Burrough’s single eye was fixed upon the torn flounce. 
He did not dare to look at her lest he should see her 
shiver again when she saw his disfigurement. He drew 
the brim of his hat still more down. 

“ What are you doing ? ” cried she. ‘‘ No, you must 
not cut it Off ; you might forget I am just Bill — ^your old 
pal, Billy P. Please let me do it ; you forget. It’s just 
a silly trick of mine, this masquerading in frills and 
flounces. I’m really — ^yes, a horrid, beery fisherman, 
and I chew tobacco, and I swear and beat my wife, and 
I’ve got a little fishing-smack at St. Sennen — the ^ Stormy 
Petrel,’ by Bill Pentreath — and they call me ‘ cap’n ’ 
down there. I wonder you know such people.” 

“ It’s all right. Bill ; I don’t forget,” said Burrough 
bravely. 

“Gi’e us yer knife then. Jack. I wants to trim these 
’ere duds o’ mine,” said Beatrice delightedly. 

“ She doesn’t care,” he thought. It is nothing to 
her.” 

‘‘Let me do it, Bill,” he pleaded. 

“ Ah, well,” said she, with a distinctly feminine sigh. 

But when Burrough was upon his knees at those tiny 
feet, the fragrant petticoat in his hands, his knuckles 
against the warm, strong ankle, he lost, not all, but a part 
of his self-restraint ; and this fact was communicated to 
237 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

him less through his senses than by means of Beatrice’s 
voice saying reproachfully, although more softly than she 
had intended — 

“ Jack, thee’rt a gurt fool ! ” 

“ It’s done — it’s off ! ” he cried, somewhat hoarsely, 
perhaps, but still strongly, holding the pretty scented 
trifle out. 

“ I’ll get the missis to sew it on,” laughed she ; but 
there were tears in her eyes had he known it. She 
admired his courage and his strength the more; his 
courage in that he had not been yet weaker, his strength 
in conquering what weakness there was. Those kisses 
were warm upon her pretty ankle. 

“Jack, we mustn’t stop,” she hurried on. “There’s 
auntie waiting, and she’s nervous by herself. I thought 
it would be wise to bring her, and then — well, you know. 
You’ve been a good boy. Jack, very good ; and Bill’s 
proud of you. Now look — look down into the copse ! ” 

Burrough turned slowly and stupidly. He saw hun- 
dreds of white spikes springing from the lush grass 
below. They were orchid blooms nodding sleepily in 
the enchanted moonlight. 

“ I must have some,” she said, and went down into the 
lush grass, which reached her knees, regardless of wet 
feet and damaged lace ; for she was careless of her pretty 
clothes, and perhaps she wanted to cool that burning 
ankle in the swamp. 

“ Come and help,” she called. “ We must hurry ; 
there are clouds coming up over the moon, and if it’s 
dark on Brynamoor auntie will scream.” 

Burrough went down and helped, keeping some dis- 
tance from her. He was thankful when a gauzy veil was 
238 


How They went into the Copse. 

drawn across the moon, making Beatrice a ghostly figure 
and concealing his deformity from her. He could hardly 
see the white spikes of the orchids ; they were confused 
with the cotton sedge. 

In the meantime the girl was chattering : 

“ Shine, bright moon, or you’ll break the spell. There 
are drunkards here. They ought to have done flowering by 
now. They are very late drunkards.” She was referring 
to a few marsh-marigolds which displayed their yellow 
cups at the edge of the swamp. “ It is a shame to call 
them drunkards, even if they are always drinking. They 
only drink water, but perhaps bog-water is rather rich 
and heady. And here 1 Are these ghastly little things 
forget-me-nots? Yes, they are.” 

As she spoke a glow of red light came across the 
copse. Light clouds drifted overhead, there was a noisy 
crackling, and the air became full of sparks. 

Auntie has fired Brynamoor,” cried Beatrice. 
“ There she sits upon her rock, singing as she watches 
the world burning. She thinks the five minutes are up.” 

They came up from the copse. Burrough tried to hang 
back, because he felt there was much he would like to 
say, if he could find the words, and the courage to utter 
them ; but Beatrice pressed on towards the gate, obviously 
anxious to bring the scene to a close. 

“ Peter has gone,” he exclaimed at last. “ I am alone 
now.” 

“ Gone 1 ” said Beatrice. “ Hoisted Blue Peter ? 
Weighed his little anchor? Walked his own chalks, 
without a last paw-shake, or a valedictory mew ? ” 

“ I have not seen him all day. He never came in this 
evening. He has always been punctual to his meals.” 

239 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ I knew how it would be,” said Beatrice. “ A 
messenger came last night to tell him that the old king 
his father had passed away, and that he was king of all 
the cats. Of course he would have to go at once, or 
some pretender might have seized the crown. He won’t 
forget you. He’ll send you the Crown Prince to bring 
up. Some morning you’ll find a fine black kitten lost 
among the heather by your door. You can take him in 
and call him Moses.” 

“ Peter was my only companion,” he went on sadly. 

“ He will come back,” said Beatrice. Of course he 
will. Cats are fearful profligates. They go away for 
sprees of a week, then sneak home like prodigal sons to 
be fed up and pampered.” 

They were at the gate. The stone hedge concealed 
them from Miss Pentreath, who was strutting nervously 
beside the glowing furze. Burrough stopped with his 
hand upon the catch, and turned suddenly to face the 
girl with a fond whisper of her name. 

‘‘Your bad memory,” she laughed. “Not Beatrice, 
but Bill. Remember me as Bill. Write to me as Bill — 
and like me as Bill.” 

After that he could do nothing. There was no doubt 
that was her final answer. The moon was out again, and 
he stood revealed ; and Miss Pentreath had sighted her 
niece and was coming towards them with quite unreason- 
able haste. 

When Burrough returned to his cottage beside the 
gorge Peter had not returned. He went almost imme- 
diately to bed, reminding himself again that love and 
matrimony, and even the disappearance of a favourite 
cat, were merely incidents of life. He consoled himself 
240 


How They went into the Copse. 

with the thought that he would see Beatrice for another 
two weeks, listen to her chatter, visit with her their little 
kingdom by the river, and feel the enchantment of her 
presence. During the fourteen days much might happen. 
She liked him, and therefore she might accustom herself 
to his disfigurement. She might cease to be Bill of the 
copse, and become again Beatrice of Blissland, Beatrice 
of the tiny footprint and the golden hairpin. 

The next morning Willum came up the cleave with 
gun and dogs and the letter-bag. He was very late, and 
his temper was bad. He explained these facts by inform- 
ing Burrough, whom he met among the rocks searching 
for Peter, that the two ladies had cut short their visit, 
and had upset his mother by ordering an early breakfast, 
and annoyed himself by sending him out still earlier to 
order the carriage so that they might catch the first 
west-bound train. 


p.p. 


241 


R 


CHAPTER XXII. 


HOW WILLUM WENT ROUND WITH A PAPER. 

It was not often that Mrs. Cobbledick had an idea, 
but when one did come she made the most of it. The 
idea of her life was butter, not that made by others — she 
had repeatedly refused to grease her boots with that — but 
her own. It would be impossible to lay too much 
emphasis upon the butter. The produce of her churn 
was in Mrs. Cobbledick’s eyes the final triumph of 
art. It was not butter as other people, fools mostly, 
understood by the word. On Saturdays she drove her 
pony to great-market or little-market, as the case might 
be, with a basket of her precious butter. Sometimes she 
brought it back untouched. She said the townsfolk were 
not worthy of her butter. They did not understand it. 
They had not been educated up to it. Therefore she had 
refused to sell any to them. She had chosen rather to 
give it away to the suffering poor. It was not always that 
the suffering poor would accept the gift. They said it 
was bad butter. 

Enthusiasm hardly entered into Willum’s unemployed 
existence. Profound meditation with his back against a 
wall, the rise or fall in price of liquors containing 
alcohol, the breeding of spaniels, the courting of various 
young women, assorted ecclesiastical duties, an inquiry 
into the study of the Chinese language, the shooting of 
242 


How Willum went round with a Paper. 

rabbits — such were the occupations which filled the 
scholar’s days. Yet even Willum felt pride in his 
mother’s butter, believing it was all that she claimed for 
it. The glory of that butter was reflected upon him as 
the son of its creator. When escorting visitors through 
the village he would dismiss Norman architecture and 
Saxon pounds with a few ill-chosen inaccuracies in order 
that he might indicate the linhay, which Mrs. Cobbledick 
used for her dairy, with the impressive statement, “ Mother 
makes her butter there.” 

Even single-minded persons have secondary ideas, 
which may appear uppermost when the main idea is 
quiescent. And if butter was the pride of Ann’s life — 
apart from her son, who, however near and dear to her, 
was necessarily a thing somewhat outside and a non- 
essential to the oleaginous destiny for which she had 
been selected — the secondary idea was undoubtedly her 
tombstone. When she found herself lodgerless the 
tombstone, which was hidden away at the back of Easta- 
way’s shed, became a reproach to her. It was her desire 
by day and her oppression by night. Gradually the idea 
entered into her — started by an evil dream, induced 
possibly by partaking too heartily of butter which 
could not otherwise be disposed of — that she would die 
one day. There was nothing very original in that, but it 
suggested a double grave ungraced by any memorial. 
Regarding Willum senior that mattered little, because he 
had no niche in the local temple of fame, although there 
was a rumour that he had once drunk eighteen pints of 
ale at a sitting and had sung a different song over each 
pint. Such a distinction, however, had been claimed by 
others. This dread lest the tombstone might not be 
243 R 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

erected preyed upon Ann. Even the graves of the 
mighty are liable to be forgotten in the absence of any 
suitable memorial. The connection between main and 
secondary ideas was spontaneous. The descent from 
butter to tombstone was sudden and inevitable. Without 
a record in stone future generations might search in vain 
for the resting-place of Ann Cobbledick, the last of the 
butter-makers. 

Remote as it may appear from the main idea, the 
lingering disease with which fancy and fondness on her 
part, and inclination and laziness on his, had attached to 
Willum was the direct cause of Ann taking action towards 
the acquisition of the tombstone for which Eastaway 
quite properly demanded cash. Obviously Willum was 
failing rapidly. He leaned against the wall for longer 
intervals; his hands were in his pockets more frequently 
than ever; he went less upon the moor; and listless- 
ness had become with him a distressing feature. Mrs. 
Cobbledick considered that if Willum preceded her no 
attention would be given to the already weedy corner of 
the churchyard which she hoped in due time to occupy. 
The tombstone would probably be broken up and used 
for building purposes ; and the record, with which she 
proposed to dazzle the eyes of dairymaids and house- 
wives yet unborn, would never be published. 

Things came to a crisis when the resident doctor, who 
maintained a small sanatorium just outside the village, 
stopped Mrs. Cobbledick and informed her in a friendly 
way that Willum was a man of unusually robust constitu- 
tion, and went on to suggest that he should be made to 
devote himself to something more profitable than loafing. 
Ann was furious at the suggestion. She knew perfectly 
244 


How Willum went round with a Paper. 

well what had prompted it. Everybody was against her, 
owing to the fame of her butter, to say nothing of her 
cream and cheeses ; and as for Willum, they hated him 
because he was ” scholardly.” And now the doctor 
wanted to make her believe Willum was strong and well 
out of mere malice and hatred. It was a trick to deprive 
her of fame, to cheat her out of the tombstone. He 
wanted to delude her into the belief that Willum would 
outlive her and do justice to her memory, while the 
truth was, Willum was withering day by day, and could 
not last much longer, and when he was gone she would 
be left with no one to fight her battles ; and the tomb- 
stone would slip out of her grasp at the last moment. 

Willum ! Come here. I want ye,” she called from 
the linhay. 

The scholar was leaning against the wall in an 
ungraceful attitude of self-abandonment. The most 
prominent and equally distasteful idea suggested by his 
mother’s shrill command was one which implied motion. 

“ Do ye be careful,” called Ann. “ Poor Willum! He 
be that feeble,” she informed her churn. “ Shall I come 
and give ye an arm, old dear ? ” 

Willum was awake by this time. He informed his 
mother that he was still able to walk unaided, and pro- 
ceeded to gratify and obey her by shuffling carefully 
across the road. 

“ Willum, you’ve been working. You be all nohow,” 
said Ann. 

Her son denied the first statement with some warmth. 
The latter, he admitted, was substantially correct. Mrs. 
Cobbledick at once issued her revised version of the 
doctor’s indictment, and Willum listened with some 

245 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

dismay. He knew he was perfectly strong and well ; 
and he lived in constant dread of Ann’s discovery of that 
fact. He interpolated a fit of coughing between his 
mother’s questions, and was immediately reassured that 
Ann at least would steadfastly refuse to countenance any 
undertaking which might have for its object his own 
initiation into the first principles of manual labour. 

Do ye sit down,” cried Ann, indicating the peat- 
stack. “ And look ye, Willum, you mun bide in the village. 
I wun’t have ye trampesing Dartmoor and coming home 
carpsy-like. You mun bide quiet. Take a spuneful o’ 
cream, old dear. ’Twill ease the cough a bitty.” 

Willum swallowed the cream, and declared himself so 
much relieved that Mrs. Cobbledick heaped the spoon 
again to repeat the process. Then the scholar settled 
himself comfortably upon the peat-stack, lighted his pipe, 
and gave every indication of passing into a state of 
somnolence until such time as a meal might be awaiting 
him ; while Ann delivered herself of opinions regarding 
the cream and butter made by other people, which, as 
she averred many times each day, being a woman to 
whom one figure of speech was enough for a lifetime, she 
would not use to grease the axles of her pony-cart. Her 
remarks suggested naturally butter as a fine art, and her 
mind became uplifted to the primary idea, upon which 
she dilated until Willum’s breathing suggested uncon- 
sciousness. Therefore Ann’s mind became depressed to 
the secondary idea. The unfinished and unpaid-for 
tombstone loomed large, to the momentary exclusion of 
dairy produce. She roused Willum and enlightened him 
as to the state of her mind regarding Eastaway, and went 
on to inform him that desire for the tombstone spoilt and 
246 


How Willum went round with a Paper. 

embittered her entire existence. A man of Willum’s 
learning might, she considered, suggest means by which 
the tombstone could be acquired without the degradation 
of paying for it. 

Willum’s instincts were primitive. The only plan that 
suggested itself to him was to enter the shed, remove the 
memorial, and place it in the churchyard. Once in 
consecrated ground, it would be safe. He declared that 
a special Act of Parliament would be required before it 
could be removed; and as churchwarden he should 
oppose any such arbitrary proceeding. However, the 
objections to purloining the tombstone were many. It 
could not be done secretly; it would require a horse and 
cart, together with a gang of conspirators, armed with 
crowbars, and fortified with beer. 

“ It mun be paid for,” decided the scholar. “ Eastaway 
be cruel hard on folk. Wanted me to work for ’en. 
Said if I worked for three weeks he’d give us the tomb- 
stone. Knew a day’s work would kill me.” 

“ The doctor put 'en up to it. ’Twas a plot to get ye 
out of the way,” said Ann bitterly. “ They hates I for 
the butter. They reckons they could du what they likes 
wi’ you dead and gone, and me a lone woman. Willum, 
I be going to have the tombstpne, and I be going to get 
the butter put on ’en, but I b’ain’t going to pay for ’en.” 

“ I mun go round wi’ a paper,” said Willum. 

The scholar had said nothing wiser in his life. It was 
in fact an inspiration, and Ann was so enraptured that 
she bounded across the linhay, and seizing her son’s 
sandy head between her buttery hands, kneaded it in her 
joy. But the question was at once suggested : who 
would head the paper? 


247 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ Mr. Yeoland — he’ll head 'en wi’ two shillun. I'll 
make ’en,” said Willum. 

“ Ain’t there no one wi’ a title ? ” Ann suggested. 

“ There’s a ' sir ’ up to Tor Down, wi’ two ugly maidens 
his darters. They don’t think much of ’en, ’cause he 
gets his money out o’ soap. If it had been beer, now, or 
pigs, us might have got ’en to head the paper.” 

Mrs. Cobbledick agreed that the unpopularity of the 
saponaceous knight rendered him ineligible to head the 
subscription list. Other names were mentioned, only to 
be dismissed. No allusion was made to Burrough. 
Men who live in tiny cottages with tin roofs are obviously 
not to be honoured with the first place upon lists of any 
sort. His name would appear somewhere about the 
bottom. It was decided that Mr. Yeoland should be 
awarded the privilege of starting the paper. 

That afternoon Willum went the round, having first 
stipulated with his mother that any surplus money 
collected by his endeavours should be retained by him 
and disposed of as he should think fit. He went first to 
the vicarage, entered without ceremony, and discovered 
old Y. seated in his dining-room, which was about the 
only apartment proof against wind and rain, chuckling 
over a cheap illustrated newspaper. 

“Wait a moment,” the old fellow mumbled, when his 
lay-reader entered. “ There’s no hurry. I’ll come in a 
minute. I’d forgotten it was Sunday.” 

“ It ain’t Sunday, sir. I’ve come to ask ye for a piece 
of paper,” said Willum, “ and pen and ink. Shall I take 
’em, sir? ” 

“Yes, take them,” muttered old Y., profoundly 
thankful that he was not to be disturbed, and blissfully 
248 


How Willum went round with a Paper. 


ignorant that he was supplying implements for his own 
torment. 

Willum helped himself to what was necessary, scribbled 
painfully for some minutes, then approached the arm- 
chair, and handed the vicar a sheet of paper upon the 
top of which he had inscribed in his sprawling caligraphy, 
“Substraction List for Widdow Cobbledick’s Toomstune.’' 

“ Eh, what’s this ? ” muttered the old man. 

Willum explained, and added, “ Shall I put down five 
shillun, sir ? ” 

“ No ! ” cried the vicar. “ I’ve no money. I’ll give 
nothing. Yes, I will. I’ll give threepence.” 

“ Three shillun you mean, sir. Mother mun have it. 
She frets for ’en fearful.” 

“ I’ve got no money,” old Y. repeated. “ I’ll give 
sixpence. You’ve spelt the words wrong. Substraction 
— it ought to be substriction. No, no ! I’m getting old 
and forgetful. Subscription — that’s it. And you’ve spelt 
‘ widow ’ wrong. You’ve put two ‘ d ”s.” 

“ I’ll put ’en right, sir,” said Willum, taking the paper 
and proceeding carefully to add a third “ d.” 

The vicar did not notice the alteration when he held 
the paper again to his eyes. 

“ What does she want a trombone for ? ” he mumbled. 

“Tombstune,” shouted Willum. 

“ Eh, tombstone. That’s a silly thing to worry 
about.” 

Finally the vicar parted with half-a-crown, and Willum 
departed in triumph across the road in search of Eastaway. 
He saw no reason why the stonebreaker-publican should 
not subscribe. However, that worthy thought otherwise. 
While they were arguing the matter, a sergeant of artillery 
249 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

entered and called for refreshment, and Eastaway sub- 
mitted the question to him. The soldier suggested a 
portion of the purchase money might be remitted, and 
in the same breath asked Willum what he drank. 

“ I drinks beer, sir,’' replied the scholar thirstily. 

“ Let him drink it,” said the sergeant. 

“ ril tell you what I’ll do. I’ll knock off ten shillun,” 
said Eastaway generously, as he drew the beer. I’m 
tired of seeing the stone. It’s no use to me. Took a 
man half a week to crack ’en, and been lying in the shed 
ever since. Give me a pound and take it. I’ve got to 
lose, whether you take it or whether you leave it.” 

“ That’s a fair offer,” said the sergeant. 

Willum drained his mug and turned it upside down 
either as a proof of its emptiness, or, what was more 
probable, as a hint for more. Then he produced the 
paper, and passed it to the stonebreaker with instructions 
to sign, ‘‘Under Mr. Yeoland, Robert Eastaway, ten 
shillun.” 

“ More trouble than the stone’s worth,” the publican 
grumbled, as he bent his fingers for the unwelcome task 
of writing. 

“You’re starting well,” said the sergeant. “Have 
some more beer ? ” 

“ I’ll try, sir,” said Willum genially. 

“ Let him try,” said the soldier. 

Willum succeeded with some facility. He took the 
paper, glanced at the spidery characters which the 
stonebreaker had inscribed, and chuckled. 

“ Ten and ten be twenty,” he said. “ Twenty shillun 
make one pound. Ain’t that right, sir ? ” 

“Used to be when I was at school.’’ 

250 


How Willum went round with a Paper. 

“ What are ye talking about ? I’ve put down ten 
shillun,” said Eastaway gruffly. 

“ Ten shillun knocked off, ten shillun put down — that 
be twenty.” 

“ You’m a liar,” cried Eastaway excitedly. Ain’t he 
a liar, sir ? ” 

“ Well,” muttered the sergeant, if you don’t cheat 
him, he’ll cheat you. You can call that business.” 

“ I’ll show him business,” shouted the publican, who 
frequently lost his temper over money matters. “ I’ll have 
that paper, and tear ’en up, and get even wi’ ’en.” 

But Willum was already outside, flushed with success 
and two pints of beer. He did not go far. After visiting 
the stone-crackers in the yard, and collecting nothing 
from them, he returned to the door of the inn, accosted 
the sergeant, and cajoled a shilling out of him for the 
good cause. 

Then Willum devoted himself to a careful canvass of 
the district. He visited the lodging-houses. He tracked 
unsuspecting persons upon the moor, and pushed the 
paper, which issued from his pocket dirtier and more 
crumpled each time, into their hands. Nobody was safe 
from him. Money accumulated in his pocket. Willum 
decided privately he would go round again next week for 
his own benefit. He could declare he had lost his geese 
and didn’t know where to find them, or he could say one 
of his ponies had been stugged in a bog. He did not 
possess any ponies, but the visitors would not know 
that. This going round with a paper suggested endless 
possibilities. An honest man might make a living that 
way. 

Willum had amassed a sum of nineteen shillings by 

251 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

sheer audacity, when he met little Georgie Eastaway, 
known familiarly as “ Cap and Breeches ” on account of 
the undue prominence of these sartorial necessities, which 
had been handed down from father to son. The scholar 
charged the child with a message for his father. “ Tell 
’en I only wants one shilling more, and I be going to get 
it from Mr. Burrough. I’ll pay ’en the lot when I comes 
back.” Cap and Breeches promised to obey, and trotted 
off ; while Willum marched stolidly over the moor to the 
cottage beside the gorge. 

Burrough opened the door to him. Had Willum 
been less occupied with his own affairs, he might have 
noticed that the young man looked ill. With his best 
smile the scholar extended the crumpled sheet, and said, 
with the simplicity which had so far proved effectual^ 
“ For Mother’s tombstone.” 

Burrough glanced hurriedly over the sheet, and 
muttered something under his breath which was not 
complimentary to the house of Cobbledick. Willum saw 
his lips move and had enough sense to perceive that the 
ejaculation was dental. His mouth made an ugly smile 
under his sandy moustache. He had no affection for 
Burrough, whom he regarded as a social inferior ; neither 
had he forgotten that little affair of the “ Chinese Bible.” 
Ignorance prevented him from saying anything on the 
subject, but he had an idea that Burrough had played him 
a trick. 

“ This is nothing whatever to do with me,” Burrough 
said impatiently. 

“ Mother mun have the stune,” replied Willum. “ She 
wun’t give me no peace, and I thought I’d best come round 
wi’ a paper. ’Tis under the patronage of Mr. Yeoland.” 

252 


How Willum went round with a Paper. 


** It may be his affair, but it’s not mine. I can’t give 
you anything. There’s no end to these things. A boy 
came yesterday for a subscription to the Wesleyan 
Mission, another for the chapel tea. And now this tomb- 
stone. I should have thought your mother would have 
preferred to pay for such a thing herself. I notice none 
of the villagers have subscribed.” 

“ Mother be poor,” said Willum defiantly. 

“ Then you ought to work and support her,” Burrough 
replied warmly. Of course it’s no affair of mine 
whether you work or not ; but when you come and ask 
me to subscribe to your family memorial, I can only tell 
you plainly that the money ought to come out of your 
own pocket.” 

Willum’s little foxy eyes became very malicious, and he 
reddened angrily. He had not expected this kind of 
treatment. 

I’ve never worked, and I ain’t a-going to,” he cried 
huskily. 

“That’s your own look-out,” replied Burrough; and 
without another word he shut the door in the scholar’s face. 

Willum delivered himself of various ugly noises when 
he found himself alone. Then he raised the knocker 
and rapped gently. There was no response, so he 
opened the door and pushed his head in. Burrough was 
seated at his writing-table amid books and papers. 

“ I was going to tell ye there was a note left,” he said 
smoothly. “ The young lady left ’en, but Mother’s lost 
*en. Mother’ll look for ’en again, and if ’tis found I’ll 
bring ’en in the morning.” 

“Oh, very well,” said Burrough carelessly, without 
turning. 


253 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“You wun’t put your name on the paper?” Willum 
suggested. 

“No, thank you.” 

“ All right, sir. Good-evening.” 

With that Willum tramped away a very angry man. 

When the scholar drew near his home he saw his 
mother looking out, and she hurried towards him in a 
state of much excitement to announce that the tombstone 
had been delivered. There it was, leaning against the 
side of the cottage, its unfinished inscription informing 
passers-by that beneath it reposed all that was mortal of 
the very person who was then gloating over it with 
garrulous delight. 

“ There be plenty of room for the butter. Look ye, 
Willum, the butter’ll go nice along here,” cried Ann. 
“How much did ye pay Eastaway for ’en ? ” she 
went on. 

“Ain’t paid ’en nothing,” said the astonished Willum. 
“ Only promised ’en.” 

“ Paid ’en nothing ! ” screamed Ann. “ What made 
’en send it, then ? What made ’en send it ? Dear life ! 
Let’s get ’en into the parlour afore he sends for ’en back.” 

It was lucky it was the cool of the evening. Had the 
incident occurred during the heat of the day, Mrs. Cobble- 
dick might have been seized with apoplexy. To have 
secured the tombstone for nothing, to have defeated the 
vile avarice of the stonebreaker, to have paid him only 
with promises — this was indeed a triumph ! And the 
victory had been won by the inimitable wisdom of Willum, 
her son. 

The scholar admitted as much, although he was 
mystified ; and he took care not to mention the nineteen 

254 


How Willum went round with a Paper. 

shillings in his pocket. While his mother went for 
assistance to roll the tombstone into the parlour, he 
trudged off to the stone-yard, and meeting Charlie 
Eastaway’s waggoner, gathered from him some informa- 
tion, which was supplemented by the remarks of little 
Cap and Breeches, who was industriously cracking a whip 
hard by. Charlie, it appeared, had misunderstood the 
stonebreaker’s orders, which were that he should have the 
tombstone placed in the waggon when he had unloaded 
the granite brought down from the moor, and should hold 
himself in readiness to deliver the stone at Mrs. Cobble- 
dick’s so soon as Willum should appear with the money, 
instead of which Charlie had set off at once with the 
tombstone and a couple of men to unload the same. 
Eastaway had just discovered what had been done, and 
was — so Charlie averred — still talking about it. 

“ Go in and pay ’en now. He’s in the bar. Go on, 
and I’ll stand a pint,” the waggoner pleaded. 

“Not me,” said Willum, with no idea of dissipating 
the nineteen shillings so foolishly. 

“ He’ll take ye into court if ye don’t pay.” 

“He wun’t. Not Eastaway. The law be expensive, 
and us be poor folk. He can’t get nothing out of we. 
He’s made a bad bargain, and Mother have made a good 
one. And so have I,” Willum concluded, working his 
fingers among the shillings and florins which lined his 
pocket. 


255 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


HOW BURROUGH LONGED TO ENTER LYONESSE. 

More than a month passed before Burrough heard 
anything of Beatrice. During that time he worked as 
hard as he could. His days were singularly monotonous. 
The morning he occupied at his writing-table, trying to 
project himself into the stone age. He walked in the 
afternoon upon the moor, or to little Blissland, or 
through the copse where the flowers were beginning to 
fail. Beside the river the pink seed-pods of the asphodels 
announced autumn, and the red sundews were sinking in 
the bogs. The early evening he spent with prehistoric 
men in their hut circles ; and then he sat by a peat fire, 
pipe in mouth, and thinking hard. 

Peter had never come back. He had been seen 
returning, weak and thin, from a hunting expedition by 
Willum; and the scholar, recognising Burrough’s only com- 
panion, had put up his gun with a malicious twinkle in his 
foxy eyes and destroyed poor Peter. Burrough saw nobody 
except the moorman’s wife, who came in twice a week to 
clean up ; and he was thinking seriously of disposing of her 
upon economic grounds. He had interviewed the doctor 
with a view to ascertaining whether his state of health 
would justify a return to London life, and the answer had 
been discouraging. For another two years at least it would 
be advisable for him to remain and harden upon the moor. 

256 


Burrough longs to enter Lyonesse. 

The note left by Beatrice with Mrs. Cobbledick had 
not been forwarded. Willum took care of that, and 
Burrough felt that he would only be making himself 
ridiculous by going to demand it with threats. The 
retort that it had been lost was unanswerable. He knew 
also it would be useless to apply to Ann for Beatrice’s 
address. Burrough had made a mistake in refusing to 
subscribe towards the tombstone, although he knew that 
the money collected by Willum had not been devoted to 
settling Eastaway’s claim, but had been expended by the 
rascally scholar in a trip to Plymouth. The only other 
person likely to be of use was Old Y. Burrough called 
upon the poor old man, to find him half-insane with 
dread at the thought of the approaching winter. The 
Vicar knew that Beatrice lived in Cornwall, near the 
Land’s End, he thought, but that was all the information 
he could give. 

‘‘Fine girl,” he mumbled. “Nice girl. Wish I was 
a young man. Find out where she lives. Go down 
there. I’ll come too.” 

Then he collapsed into his chair and sobbed pitifully. 
He had not walked more than a hundred yards from his 
gate that summer, and he could not remember how long 
it was since he had been a railway journey. 

“ Don’t ye find it dull out there ? ” said Mrs. 
Eastaway, who was standing at her door as the young 
man passed on his way back to the gorge. 

“ Yes, very dull,” he replied ; adding quickly with a 
touch of pride, “ but it’s good for my health.” 

“ You should get another gentleman to come and live 
with you,” the woman went on. “ My husband often 
says when he comes down with the granite it must be 

p.p. 257 s 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

cruel lonely for you up there on Dartmoor among the 
winds and mists.” 

“ No one would stop with me,” said Burrough with a 
smile. “It’s too dull. People live in towns now, or 
within reach of them. They must have their pleasures 
every day.” 

Mrs. Eastaway could not follow him there, as she had 
lived all her life upon the heights of the moor. The 
doctrine of perpetual pleasure was therefore beyond her 
understanding. Her next remark was one that any 
woman would have made. 

“You ought to get married, sir. Is it true you are 
engaged to young Miss Pentreath ? They say so in the 
village.” 

Burrough shook his head, and raised a hand sugges- 
tively to his face while making a step forward, because 
that question made him anxious to get away into the 
mist which he could see coming up the cleave. 

“ Why, that’s nothing,” cried Mrs. Eastaway after him. 
“ No young lady, as is a young lady, would notice that. 
Besides, sir, it’s getting better every time I see you. 
You’ll be looking the same as ever before long. Many a 
young man would change faces with you, I tell ye, sir.” 

Burrough walked away rapidly. Reaching his cottage 
he hurried into his bedroom, and gazed intently into the 
glass. Certainly he was improving. The pure air and 
sunshine had done wonders for him : the forehead had 
practically healed, and the scar, if somewhat conspicuous, 
was at least not repulsive. But the eye-socket was. If 
the eye had only been spared everything might have been 
well with him. 

As the Artillery Camp had not yet been disbanded, 
258 


Burrough longs to enter Lyonesse. 

Burrough tramped across the moor upon the following 
day, and asked to see the surgeon. He was referred to 
the mess-house, and going there found the man he was 
seeking, an altogether different type from the doctor who 
had attended him after the accident. He was fussy, 
verbose, and optimistic. He knew all about Burrough’s 
case, of course, but gave him no chance to speak when 
he had once obtained a hint as to the object of his visit. 
A false eye ? Certainly, it was the simplest thing in the 
world. And it was very effective, almost as good as the 
real thing. He might say quite as good. In some cases 
really an improvement upon Nature. Surgical art could 
repair ravages caused by time or accident in a marvellous 
manner. One got quite a poor opinion of Nature after 
a long course of operations. Science and art in combi- 
nation were able to accomplish marvels, positive marvels. 
Such a little matter as teeth now — where was Nature ? 
Nowhere in comparison with art. He strongly advised 
everyone to have their teeth out, the wretched teeth with 
which Nature had provided them, and an excellent set 
substituted by art. But in this case it was an eye — a 
new eye for an old. It would match the other ? Yes, 
that was quite practicable, quite easy. He couldn’t wink 
at the girls, otherwise the false eye would look positively 
better than the other. Couldn’t see with it, of course. 
That was a pity, but art hadn’t quite attained to that 
pitch of excellence. He would see to it — delighted. 
The War Office would pay the expense, no doubt. 
Wouldn’t he sit down and have a brandy and soda, and 
talk about it ? As a result of the subsequent monologue, 
for it could hardly have been called a conversation, 
Burrough received definite assurance that his personal 
259 s 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

appearance could be in some measure restored. The 
chatty surgeon was interested in the case, and said so at 
great length. Burrough went away in better spirits than 
he had enjoyed for weeks. 

Then, at last, a note came from Beatrice. It was not 
a letter, merely a dozen lines on a small sheet of note- 
paper, inquiring after his health, hoping that his work 
was progressing, commenting upon the weather, but 
telling him nothing about herself. Everything connected 
with the note was a disappointment. It was badly 
written ; the girl’s handwriting was neither tidy nor 
pretty ; it was entirely unsympathetic, although she sub- 
scribed herself “your old pal. Bill.” It was just the sort 
of communication that might have been sent by one 
schoolboy to another. 

No address was given. That was the unkindest cut. 
Perhaps she had forgotten. More probably she desired 
to conceal it. Possibly she had given it in the note left 
with the Cobbledicks, and was a little cold with ‘Jack’ 
because he had not acknowledged that note. During 
their walks she had mentioned half the villages in 
Western Cornwall, but Burrough had never discovered 
which was the actual village where she lived. 

The envelope was postmarked Sennen, which, as 
Burrough knew, was the usual abbreviation for St. Sennen 
Church-Town, the last village in England. He felt sure 
Beatrice did not live there. She was probably upon a 
visit with her wayward aunt. The thought at once 
occurred that he might go down there. He put it away 
from him, but it recurred with added force ; and when 
that evening he was sitting alone in the lamplight, the 
wind upon the moor and the water in the gorge seemed 
260 


Burrough longs to enter Lyonesse. 

to him to be singing in unison, and calling, “Go down ! ” 
He rose and shut the window, then drew the curtains close; 
but the wind and the water went on calling, “Go down!” 

“ I have not been away for more than a year,” he 
reflected. “ A short trip would do me a lot of good. A 
sentimental journey into Cornwall would freshen me up 
and might furnish me with new ideas. And it may be 
my only chance of seeing Beatrice. If she gave me her 
address in the note she left behind, she must be thinking 
I have made up my mind not to correspond. She has 
written to me twice and I have not been able to answer. 
It is hardly likely she will write again.” It was then 
about nine o’clock. Burrough looked out and discovered 
a perfect night, although the wind was rushing down the 
cleave with its customary sad music. It was fairly light 
upon the moor ; the stars were very bright ; and he 
could just see the white water foaming in the gorge. It 
was too good a night to sleep through, he thought. 

Then the vulgar nightjar lifted up his voice, and said 
in his coarse way that, if he wanted to be in St. Sennen 
Church-Town, he wouldn’t tuck his head under his wing, 
but he would just flap there right away, blow him tight 
if he wouldn’t. Burrough appreciated the statement. 
Why go to bed and dream unpleasantly ? Why not go 
upon the open moor and flap his way towards the Land’s 
End ? The westbound mail stopped at Okehampton 
before midnight. He could tumble a few things into a 
bag and walk across the moor, cross the river at Culliver’s 
Steps, strike up into the military road, which would be 
showing clearly in the starlight, pass over the Blackabrook 
by the military bridge, skirt the artillery camp, and so 
down to the station just in time to catch the mail. 

261 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Half-an-hour later the cottage was locked up and 
deserted. The wind and the water roared down the 
gorge, and the nightjar in the cleave continued his coarse 
observations upon things in general, much to the dis- 
turbance of decent birds trying to get some sleep. There 
was plenty of company for the nightjar : owls drifted 
about the tors ; the gorge was filled with flying beetles : 
and the cleave was white with ghost-moths. 

Burrough caught the mail and passed rapidly from the 
north of Dartmoor, through its Stannary Town on the 
Tavy, and down to its western boundary of Plymouth. 
The journey into Cornwall could not commence until 
some hours later; so he tramped through the silent 
streets, and coming out upon the starlit Hoe settled him- 
self upon a seat which was not already occupied by waifs 
and strays. He felt singularly self-satisfied now that he 
had reached the west country London, where he could 
fancy himself a citizen of the world again. It was 
delightful to be away for a time from the moorland 
heights ; to find himself surrounded by apparently end- 
less streets of houses and yet to breathe sea air ; to see 
the lights and hear the subdued noises, and at the same 
time to discern dimly the outline of rocks and the hulls 
of battleships. It was a pleasant change from the eternal 
gorse, heather, and bracken of his desolate home. 

Altogether that was a happy and eventful night. 
Shortly before five o’clock the express drew out of North 
Road station, and crossing the Hamoaze at Saltash, con- 
veyed the sentimental traveller for the first time in his 
life into Cornwall, and so to Liskeard in chilly lamplight 
and damp morning mist. 

The sun was rising as the train drew into Truro, and 
262 


Burrough longs to enter Lyonesse. 

the City of the Three Streets was bathed in a rosy light, 
which softened the granite buildings exactly as the mist 
had softened the granite tors when Burrough had set out 
to Brynamoor to find Beatrice that last time. 

At Truro the garden-of-England scenery came to an 
end. Up to that point the country was richly wooded, 
and there was luxuriance in the ferns and hedgerows. 
There were orchards crowded with apple-trees. There 
should have been vineyards as in the old days. The 
green valleys of Lostwithiel, the smiling hills of St. 
Austell, were unlike anything else in the west country. 
England was left at Truro. Even the people were not 
English. The fishermen had the faces and the courtly 
manners of King Arthur’s knights, and the heavy yokel 
of English districts did not exist. 

When the traveller saw the sun shining on the treeless 
district of the mines at Chacewater, he realised that it 
had been dark during his journey through the beautiful 
country. He had missed it all. And now it was light, 
so that he could see once more the rough heather and 
granite, the great bare stretches of country with its 
unworked tin-mines and patches of stunted pine. It 
looked very bare and desolate. The occasional cottages 
were squalid, and the stained granite churches seemed 
to be weary of withstanding the heavy storms which 
battered them so often. The scene grew wilder as the 
train swept on ; trees and hedges were left behind ; there 
were no more cornfields, nor cottages with bright flower 
gardens ; the end was approaching, the Land’s End ; 
and soon there would be nothing, except the granite and 
stunted gorse, and the foaming waste of sea. It was like 
a beautiful woman growing old ; South Devon her youth; 

263 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Eastern Cornwall her early married life; then at Truro 
middle age ; and so on into the desolation and decay of 
old age. Burrough wondered whether he too had left 
behind the trees and flowers ; whether he too had passed 
through the flowering woods and the luxuriant lanes; 
whether he might be coming, in more senses than one, 
to the untrodden wastes; to end at length among the 
cruel rocks and the stormy sea. 

It was a waste which was not all a waste. Upon the 
magnesian soil grew the flesh-coloured Cornish heather, 
which no art short of witchcraft could induce to grow 
east of Truro. In the villages down below, accustomed 
to the roar of the sea, were semi-tropical plants ; and the 
hydrangeas were bushes and the fuschias were trees. 
The wide sweeps of treeless land were still beautiful, 
and so was the air. It was the air after all that was the 
best. It was fresh and pure, and so soft that to breathe 
it into tender lungs made all the wide difference between 
pleasure and pain. 

Respectable people had not breakfasted when Burrough 
reached Penzance. He found it difficult to believe that 
when the hands of the clock had last stood at half-past 
seven he had been in his cottage by the gorge, and had 
no idea of setting out upon a pilgrimage. But the shrine 
was still some miles away. He had no money to waste 
upon conveyances, so he struck into the good main road, 
and walked the eight miles to St. Sennen Church -Town 
with hardly a stop by the wayside. 

It was not until reaching the village that he felt he had 
done foolishly. Nervous at the best of times, he felt 
doubly so when he walked in the crooked street, glancing 
half-defiantly at the villagers, and feeling extremely 
264 


Burrough longs to enter Lyonesse. 

helpless and unwilling to accost any of them. There were 
a few visitors about the place. He saw an artist with a 
huge white umbrella ; a mild-looking clergyman attempt- 
ing to add the leaven of respectability to a rather noisy 
party ; an elderly over-dresssd lady with a young and 
obviously persecuted companion ; two youths with cheap 
cigars and ready-made clothes ; and a regiment of very 
well-drilled children, officered by a nurse with the figure 
of a Falstaff and the face of a dragoon, including even 
the moustache. These and other curious objects of the 
Land’s End presented themselves to Burrough’s vision ; 
but he saw nobody resembling Beatrice and her aunt. 

The post-office being the information bureau of all 
villages, the traveller went thither. The woman in charge 
looked with suspicion at the nervous young man, who 
was wearing a rather unsightly patch over his right eye, 
but she answered his questions readily enough. “ Yes, 
she knew Miss Beatrice Pentreath. Everyone in Western 
Cornwall knew her. No, she was not at Sennen, and had 
not been there all the year.” 

“ But I had a letter from her yesterday with the Sennen 
postmark,” said Burrough. 

1 know you did,” said the woman. “ Poltesco 
posted it. He were Miss Pentreath’s nurse, and he’m a 
fisherman and lives here,” she explained. 

Seeing the wonder on his face, she went on, “ Miss 
Pentreath warn’t like other young ladies, and her warn’t 
brought up like ’em. Her wouldn’t have a woman nurse, 
and as her were always out of doors they got Poltesco to 
nurse she. Her’s very fond of Poltesco, and he’d do 
anything for she.” 

“ Could I see him ? ” Burrough asked. 

265 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“He went out wi’ the fishing boats last night/’ the 
woman answered. 

“ Well, then, if you don’t mind, ” said Burrough 
awkwardly, “perhaps you would tell me where Miss 
Pentreath lives.” 

This the woman refused to do in simple apologetic 
language, and Burrough could only admit that she was 
in the right. Evidently Beatrice did not want him to 
know where she lived. She was afraid he would come 
down and worry her, and she too was in the right, for 
that was exactly what he was trying to do then. 

Suddenly a thought occurred to him. He was certain 
that the woman would tell Poltesco of his visit so soon as 
the fisherman returned, and would, moreover, describe his 
appearance, and record every word that he had said. He 
might communicate with Beatrice after all, and might, 
moreover, have the very message conveyed that he had 
come to deliver in person. 

“ You are quite right,” he said to the woman, making 
a step aside and pretending to adjust the patch. “ Pol- 
tesco might not like it if you gave me Miss Pentreath’s 
address. You see I have had an accident. I have had 
the misfortune to lose an eye.” 

“ Dear life ! There’s a cruel pity ! ” exclaimed the 
woman. 

“ It is nothing like so serious as was feared at first,” 
Burrough went on, still arranging the patch as an excuse 
for his remarks. “ The wound has healed almost entirely, 
and I am about to have a false eye fitted. When that 
has been done, my appearance will be very much as it 
was before the accident. At least, so T am assured by 
the surgeon who is to perform the operation.” 

266 


Burrough longs to enter Lyonesse. 

Upon leaving the post-office Burrough felt his journey 
had not been made in vain. “ Those gossiping tongues 
will convey the message for me,” he said. “ And as it 
is only because of my appearance that Beatrice has cut 
me off from her, there is still a chance she may con- 
sent to see me again. Now for the Land’s End, some 
lunch, and a soliloquy upon the rocks. Then for Penzance 
and a train home again.” 

At the little hostelry above the sea, where the land 
narrows into a mass of rocks and sea-foam, Burrough 
obtained food and drink. Afterwards he roamed to the 
end of Penwith and saw its wonders, from the natural 
tunnel and the amazing sea-scape, to the Armed Knight 
and Dr. Johnson’s Head enveloped • in a whimsical 
wig. 

As he stood there alone Burrough felt that he ought to 
say many fine things. None, however, occurred to him. 
He felt much confused and somewhat drowsy. Nothing 
suggests the end of the world, and the end of all things, 
quite so distinctly as the fag end of Cornwall when the 
outline of Scilly is not apparent. All the headland is of 
granite, but shattered and splintered, and bristling like a 
crocodile’s jaws. There are plenty of black and grey 
lichens, and sometimes little sprigs of heather pushing 
hopefully from sheltered nooks ; and there is always the 
roar of the sea, which never stops. It is not deep ; would 
that it were for the sake of ships. A country with palaces 
and fair gardens, and one hundred and forty churches, 
lies just beneath the surface. It is the lost land of 
Lyonesse, submerged with all its cities and towers and its 
dreams of fair women ; and yonder, in the vague cloud 
mists which never shift, is the island valley of Avillion 
267 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

where Arthur lies with his three queens, being healed 
of his grievous wound. 

The sea and the wind were calm that day, but there 
was nevertheless a roaring as of imprisoned lions beneath 
the cliff. Each blackened rock rising out of the water 
had a ring of white foam at its base ; and the waves went 
leaping up, embracing the crags, streaming back un- 
willingly in streaks as of molten silver ; or like the 
white arms of a loving wife withdrawn reluctantly from 
her husband’s neck. The sea-mews soared screaming, 
and cormorants skimmed over the waves. It was peace- 
ful there, but with all its quietness haunted by ghosts 
and tales of shipwreck. Here vessels had been cast 
away by those wasteful waters before the Romans came tin 
hunting ; and bodies in thousands had been hurled land- 
wards with the contemptuous, “Earth, take thine earth,” 
of the wind-tossed waves ; from a stern bearded Phoenician 
to a beautiful pale girl in her frilled nightdress with a 
string of pearls about her neck. 

It was the romantic thought of the lost land — for the 
actual end was certainly in Scilly once — which was the 
charm of the place to Burrough, who, with all his faults, 
and perhaps because of them, had a powerful imagina- 
tion. He rested upon a sun-warmed slab of granite and 
looked out upon Lethowsow, the sea which flows across 
Lyonesse. As the sound of the roaring came up from 
below he imagined the land rising in all its glory out of 
the sea. There were castles embattled with hugh arch- 
ways and dark towers glistening in the sun. Warders 
paced the turrets, and the old Seneschal stood with keys 
beside the gate. Beyond was a garden of green arbours 
of red roses and white lilies ; and there a noble dame 
268 


Burrough longs to enter Lyonesse. 

was teaching her damsels to make silken work and cloth 
of gold ; and there were long-haired knights playing 
bowls in the cool alleys. There were meats and wines 
prepared for them in a rich pavilion; and some were 
feasting, and some lying upon the grass amid the flowers, 
listening to the birds ; and some whispering to mistresses, 
bright as blossoms on the whitethorn, a tale that was old 
even in that young world. 

Then an old man came forth, and all forsook their tasks 
or pleasures to flock about him. He was clad in a deep 
yellow robe, his white beard swept his chest, a chaplet 
was upon his head, and his harp gleamed before him. 
He was the minstrel king, the schoolmaster and historian 
of the time, and he sang the history of his country and of 
the deeds of its heroes. 

Outside the royal palace a herdsman had gathered a 
crowd to tell them of some notable adventure which had 
befallen him in the enchanted forest ; and while he was 
speaking a lovely lady rode past, her robe gathered close 
that she might display her wondrous figure ; a jewel in 
her hair worth a Saxon Kingdom; her white palfrey 
ambling proudly; her falcon upon her wrist, and two 
white greyhounds running at her side. She paused to 
listen to the herdsman’s story, not doubting it, because 
the world was enchanted then, and she had spoken with 
Lancelot, the maiden knight who had seen the Holy 
Grail covered with red samite, in that wonderful night 
when he had arrived “afore a castle on the backe side, 
which was rich and faire, and there was a posterne that 
opened toward the sea, and was open without any 
keeping, save two lions kept the entrie, and the moone 
shined cleare.” 


269 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

A glorious land was that old Lyonesse of romance. 
Every story was sure to end happily there. It was a land 
where women were always beautiful, and good as beauti- 
ful, and the knights, however tried and persecuted, were 
saints, half poets and half priests. Nothing is left of that 
kingdom now, except love. The poetry and chivalry of 
that lost land have gone. Even the dreams of it, say 
hard-headed men, are dangerous. They are but flashes 
of lightning out of a cloud, beautiful always, rarely 
harmful. Every time a true-hearted man kisses a virtuous 
maid in pure love they enter together, though it may be 
only for a moment, the sweet lost land of Lyonesse. 

Burrough stirred from his rocky seat. He thought he 
had heard a distant murmur of voices. Time was press- 
ing and he had far to go that day. It was a ridiculous 
descent from the land of romance to the railway time- 
table ; but it was necessary that he should catch the early 
evening train from Penzance. He moved a step forward, 
looked over the edge into the dip of the cliff, and saw, 
not stunted gorse, nor wind-blown heather, nor even 
ragged granite — but a boy and girl clasped together in 
the first frenzy of love. 

And they had found Lyonesse. They did not discover 
Burrough. They clung together, breast to breast and 
mouth to mouth; and the only sound they made was 
a passionate sigh as they inhaled each other’s breath. 
Every romance was dry as dust compared to that. 
Their young faces were seaward. Their features were 
bathed in the warm red sunshine — to them it was 
sunrise, such as had never been before, such as would 
never come again. 


270 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


HOW BURROUGH RECEIVED VISITORS. 

To Burrough’s surprise and delight, another little note 
came in Beatrice’s quaint handwriting — each word was like 
a long-legged spider — the envelope postmarked Sennen, 
as before. Certainly the girl was not a complete letter- 
writer. Her fun, daintiness, and nonsense seemed to 
desert her directly she took a pen into her hand. It was 
a most precise note, telling him she had just spent a 
night lance-spearing in the sands, though she did not 
mention the name of the sands. Her aunt was not at 
all well, and was grumbling a great deal. She was 
having some photographs printed of herself in fisher- 
girl’s costume — long boots, oilskins, and jersey — and 
would send him one if he cared to have it. And she 
remained “ his old pal. Bill.” It was a most unfeminine 
epistle, not even containing a postscript ; but it con- 
vinced Burrough that he was remembered. 

The omens for his success had been lately more 
favourable. The slight operation had been performed 
with considerable success, the false eye had been fitted, 
he had become accustomed to the new sensation which it 
caused and the new expression which it gave, and he 
was able to agree with the enthusiastic surgeon that the 
result was a triumph of surgical art. His appearance 
was altered very strikingly for the better now that the 
271 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

principal cause of disfigurement had been removed. He 
was no longer unpleasant to gaze upon. The false eye 
certainly changed his expression. It made him look 
alert and businesslike, and it also added a suggestion of 
cunning to his face which he did not like. 

Acting on a friendly suggestion made to him privately 
at the camp, Burrough wrote to the War Office withdraw- 
ing his claim. He was assured that by so doing he would 
prevent much unpleasantness, on the one side of giving, 
and on the other of receiving, an unfavourable reply. It 
was pointed out that a great deal had been done for him, 
that he was in very much the same position then as 
before the accident, with health and powers of working 
practically unaffected, and that he was to blame for 
having exposed himself to danger, being a commoner 
perfectly well acquainted with the ranges used by the 
artillery and the times of firing, and not an ignorant 
visitor who had strayed upon that part of the moor by 
chance. So Burrough climbed down gracefully, and 
expressed himself well satisfied with the care and atten- 
tion which had been bestowed upon him. The camp 
broke up, and the moor was abandoned to its winter 
solitude and dreariness. And the owner of the cottage 
by the gorge, conscious that he would have to rely upon 
his own efforts entirely, settled earnestly to work, his pipe 
his sole companion, now that poor Peter had passed away 
for ever. 

At last he wrote to Beatrice, unable to bear the sense 
of separation any longer. Merely a few lines reminding 
her she had not sent him her address, begging her to 
do so, and promising he would not come down without 
her permission, and that he would be obedient in all 
272 


How Burrough received Visitors. 

things. He commenced the letter, “ My dear Bill,” and 
concluded it, “ Yours always. Jack and he enclosed it, 
carefully sealed, in an envelope addressed to the post- 
mistress of Sennen, and containing a polite request that 
she would give the enclosed to Poltesco, the fisherman, if 
she did not wish to add Beatrice’s address herself. 

A few days later there came an answer in quite a 
different style — 

So you went to Sennen, and you made kind inquiries 
about me, and you moralised at the Land’s End, did 
you ? I heard all about the poor old soldier who had 
lost his eye in the wars. But why did you ? In the note 
I left for you with the Cobbledicks I charged you not to 
search diligently for me. I was afraid you might want to 
forget that my name is Bill, the fisherman of the hamlet of 
Blank, in the parish of Blank, in the kingdom of West 
Wales. You might have written every day and run to 
and fro. 1 judged you quite accurately. Well, now, as 
Bill, I should like to see you ; but as Beatrice I ought 
not to. That is why I don’t give geographical particulars 
concerning my hut circle. Of course I shall see you 
again, and as two wild boys we’ll ramble in Blissland, 
and go swaling, and walk to Cranmere. We’ll do it all 
over again next summer. By that time we shall have 
become more settled in our minds. Apart altogether 
from the results of that horrid accident — though I do hear 
they have patched you up and made a first-rate job — I'm 
not the sort of fisherman to meet a girl on Monday, want 
her to say * Yes ’ on Tuesday, and to wear a wedding- 
ring on Wednesday. You know what I mean. I’ll give 
you Poltesco’s address, and you may write to me through 
p.p. 273 T 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

him once a month. Just ‘Dear Bill.’ You understand. 
No endearments and no diminutives. Do you want a 
successor to King Peter ? If so, I’ll send you one in a 
basket. He’s a little prince, but not royal, and he laps 
milk like a cherub. He’s doing his little traedjawg — 
worse than gorse-prickles — on my knee as I write. I’m 
working hard on my native moor. I’m actually doing a 
little independent tin-streaming. You may write when 
you get this. 

“ Your old pal, 

“Bill. 

“ P.S. — I’m certain I am right in keeping you in the 
dark about my address. After a little you will think me 
a perfect toad.” 

It was a red-letter day for Burrough. Beatrice was 
herself again. That was very different from the two pre- 
cise notes he had already received. She could put her 
fun and nonsense upon paper after all, and the mere fact 
that she had done so on this occasion convinced him 
that his cause was not hopeless. His message had 
reached her and had done its work. Evidently she did 
consider it possible that she might bear with his false eye 
and scar now that the really unpleasant details had 
been removed. She was right not to commit her- 
self. She was right to withhold her address. He 
knew how weak he was, and how his loneliness affected 
him. Had she given him her address he would have 
gone to her during one of his irresistible outbursts of 
feeling — such as that which had taken him to Sennen — 
in spite of all the promises he might make. She knew 
that too, and had taken the wiser course of keeping him 
274 


How Burrough received Visitors. 

from her until, as she had said, they should become 
more settled in their minds. 

The literary business that engrossed Burrough for that 
day, and much of the ensuing night, was a letter of ten 
thousand words. He had never written at such length or 
so readily before. When about to write professionally 
he had to take himself by the shoulders, as it were, force 
himself into his chair, and condemn himself to be seated 
for a fixed period. No such tyrannical methods were 
required that day. He did not revise the lengthy screed, 
but packed it up in a long envelope and sent it off to the 
faithful Poltesco. 

Soon he received the formal announcement — 

“Dear Sir, — Your manuscript has reached us safely. 
We will write you our opinion regarding it as soon as 
possible. 

“We are, yours faithfully, 

“ Bill & Co. 

“At the sign of the ‘ Stormy Petrel,’ n’Importe Ou.” 

No opinion came, and the days drifted on, making a week, 
a second, and a third, until Burrough grew restless and 
impatient. At length there came a break in the monotony. 

It was the first day of winter — the weather of winter, if 
not yet the season. A thick haze was hanging upon the 
moor, blotting out tor and cleave, and there came con_ 
tinually a stinging shower of sleet, slanted by the wind 
into the faces of those who were unfortunate enough to 
be abroad. Mrs. Cobbledick’s meteorological statement, 
that it was “ a full day with a tremenjus frisk,” was 
admirably descriptive of the prevailing conditions. 

275 T 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Burrough worked steadily through the morning. During 
the afternoon a knock came upon his door. He hurried 
to open it and discovered a shivering Frenchman, bearing 
a pole on which were slung long strings of onions. He 
was one of the Bretons who cross twice each year to 
Plymouth, and from that point wander through the west 
to hawk the produce of their fields. High Dartmoor was 
a savage place to that quaking man after his smiling 
Brittany. 

Burrough invited him in, and gave him a stool beside 
the glowing peat. The onion-seller accepted gratefully, 
and his eyes shone when he heard himself addressed in 
his native tongue. As for Burrough, he was glad of any 
sort of companion just then. He would have welcomed 
an escaped convict. So he pressed the man to stay and 
talk for an hour or so in his lonely hut. He gave the 
Breton tobacco and tea. He bought the longest of his 
strings of onions. He talked of the wild moors and of 
smiling Brittany, and compared them unpatriotically. He 
made a great fire, as though he had determined to have 
the man broiled and garnished with his own onions. And 
the Breton cooked his toes, and thawed his cheeks, and 
worshipped the Englishman in a devout manner. 

Burrough looked at the man’s thin face and sallow 
skin tanned by climate and sea air, his small restless eyes, 
thin lips, and slight wisp of black moustache. Here was a 
man who worked much harder than he and was not so 
well off. A newspaper column written off in a couple of 
hours was of more value than all those strings of onions. 
Was the man married .? But yes, m’sieur. And children ? 
Three, m’sieur. How did he manage ? How in the 
name of the age of miracles did he manage ? Ah, that 
276 


How Burrough received Visitors. 

was where Our Lady and the blessed saints came in. 
Burrough, neither more nor less sceptical than most 
scholars, smiled cynically. 

Then the man rose. He had far to go. He had 
shelter to seek, and the “ tremenjus frisk ” was still 
beating outside. He was only an incident, and yet 
Burrough was sorry to lose him ; and when he had 
departed after more worshipping the lonely man was half 
inclined to call him back. He wanted to find a solution 
of the social problem — how could a man maintain a 
home, wife, and three children by crossing the channel 
and selling a few strings of onions? And if it were 
possible what was the equivalent for the strings of onions 
which would enable the educated man of gentle birth to 
obtain such luxuries ? 

Burrough was unsettled. He had received a visitor. 
Such a thing had not happened since Beatrice’s departure. 
He had seen a fellow- creature ; had spoken well-nigh 
forgotten French ; had entertained a man at his fireside 
— a fact to be recorded and remembered. 

The short day closed in, and Burrough longed intensely 
for the divine pleasures of matrimonial tea. He imagined 
the lamps lighted, himself on the hearthrug beside the 
glowing fire, “ the curtains drawn and flickering gently,” 
Beatrice tea-making, while the “ tremenjus frisk ” was 
beating upon the windows and the water thundered down 
the gorge. And he thought again of the Breton out upon 
the wild moor with the strings of onions, and envied the 
man because he had solved the social problem and 
remained respectable. 

Presently the showers of sleet ceased and there was a 
calm. The sky cleared a little, and a few stormy-looking 
277 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

stars peeped out between the wet clouds. Burrough had 
not been outside all day. He determined to go for a walk 
towards the village. He might see some more men and 
hear the human voice again. The visit of the onion-seller 
had been a dissipation, and he wanted more of it. He 
resolved to persevere in it for the rest of the evening. 

It was dark and gloomy when he looked out, regular 
Dartmoor weather, and there were groups of ponies 
huddled for shelter under the side of the moor beside his 
cottage with their tails towards the wind. The baffling 
mist lent strange shapes to the ragged gorse, and the 
breezes were laden with vapour. The physical conditions 
of Dartmoor would not be endurable until the four gloomy 
months ahead had come and gone, and the sunshine of 
spring had converted the bleak and uncomfortable 
surroundings into a garden of ferns and flower. 

Not a single specimen of the biped homo vulgaris was 
sighted by Burrough as he tramped towards the village, 
nor was there a genial vision of anyone in petticoats — 
something in dark serge, with a suspicion of red flannel 
underneath, and a suggestion of Beatrice about the ankles 
would have done his heart good. Even some moorman’s 
wife — called wickedly by Beatrice moorhens — would have 
cheered his lonely spirits, although there was practically 
nothing feminine about them, apart from anatomy and 
clothing. Men and women were as extinct as dodos and 
great auks so far as the rough moorland track was con- 
cerned. Even the village at a slight distance resembled 
a sort of disinterred Pompeii without light, sound, or 
motion. 

The illusion was disturbed when Burrough came into 
the centre of things. He heard a scream suggestive 
278 


How Burrougli received Visitors. 

rather of insanity, but nevertheless a human sound, and 
on that account not unwelcome. He saw a light through 
the mist, a sort of jack o’ lanthorn jerking from side to 
side, moving very gradually beside the high wall surround- 
ing the Vicarage garden. He associated the scream with 
the presence of that light. Within the dark tumbledown 
vicarage the housekeeper was indulging in those revelries 
observed by all devout worshippers of Bacchus. The lantern 
bearer without the wall was old Yeoland. He had been 
driven out by the woman and did not dare to return. He 
would walk up and down, mumbling and trembling, until 
the bottle-imp inside had ceased to trouble the evening 
air with her exclamations. The screams were inter- 
mittent, and every time one came the lantern perceptibly 
wobbled. In the sycamores by the church a pair of owls 
were hooting in B flat. On the whole it was somewhat 
weird. 

Burrough had some genuine sympathy for old Yeoland. 
He distrusted common report which declared that the Vicar 
was a moral, as well as an intellectual, failure ; that he 
was not so much under the thumb of his riotous house- 
keeper as was supposed ; that he was in short bound to 
her by a tie which for his own peace of mind and his 
reputation he did not dare to break. This was the sort of 
talk dear to Mrs. Cobbledick, and much indulged in even 
by those who were opposed to her in the matter of butter- 
making. Solitude had played havoc with old Yeoland. 
That, and the keen mountain air, had created in him the 
desire for tippling, and he had not drawn the line until it 
was too late. He was absolutely alone in the world. He 
had bought the living as a young man. It brought him 
in a miserable pittance, and he could not give it up, 
279 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

although unable to perform the duties connected with it. 
To do so would have meant exchanging the damp half- 
ruined thatched cottage which constituted the vicarage for 
the comparative comfort of the workhouse. During the 
summer evenings he basked at his gate, ogling the girls 
as they passed. The winter evenings he spent in his arm- 
chair, half asleep, or sobbing like a frightened child, afraid 
of the solitude, except on those occasions when he had to 
wander through mist and mud with his lantern, listening to 
the owls in the sycamores and the screaming in the house. 

Burrough went up and greeted the old man. With his 
big stable lantern in one hand, a thick stick in the other, 
he shuffled along very slowly, rather like a toad dragging 
itself over a gravel path. He was delighted to see 
Burrough, although as a rule he avoided him, because 
solitude and the partial loss of his five wits had made him 
shrink from every man. 

“ Don’t talk about the weather,” mumbled old Yeoland 
directly he recognised Burrough. 

I won’t,” said the young man, “I wasn’t going to.” 

“ Don’t talk of noises,” the Vicar went on. “ The 
owls are screaming all round, all over Dartmoor.” 

“ In your house and garden,” added Burrough. 

“ Never mind. They’ll stop presently. Make a joke. 
Go on ! Say something to make me laugh.” 

“ I’m afraid I can’t joke to order. Why are you out 
so late ? ” 

“ To get the air,” said old Yeoland. I come out all 
weathers — ^when it pours with rain. I get soaked through, 
wet to the skin — does me good, makes me young again. 
Were you at the university ? Are you a scholar ? ” 

“ I took classical honours,” said Burrough. 

280 


How Burrough received Visitors. 

‘‘Well done,” said the Vicar, shuffling back as 
though the announcement frightened him. “ Have you 
got a paper for me ? Can’t you give me a funny paper 
with pictures ? ” 

“ I might have one at home,” Burrough answered, 
“ but my cottage is a long way off upon the moor.” 

“ I’m coming to see you some day. Get the paper. 
Go on ! Winter’s coming. I want something to make 
me laugh.” 

“ All right. I’ll go and get it.^’ 

With that Burrough turned and left him. Old Y/s 
conversation was not the sort of dissipation he had come 
out to find ; and he felt a sudden desire to return and 
work. He knew that the old man would forget all about 
him and the “funny paper” in less than ten minutes. He 
hurried back over the wild moor, whistling loudly, and 
trying to imagine he was in sympathy with the lonely life 
of wind and vapour that had fallen to his lot. 

Beside his cottage he was troubled with an uncomfort- 
able sensation. He seemed to feel the near presence of a 
human being. He thought he had seen a figure sway- 
ing through the mist, and he made a few steps up the 
moor to satisfy himself that the motion was caused by a 
big gorse-bush troubled by the wind. The ponies 
stamped and squealed beside the door. Burrough 
stampeded them, then as he turned the handle he 
hesitated. Suppose he should find someone inside, some 
abortion, a creature of the moors, or a murderous convict 
escaped from Princetown. Even while he hesitated the 
gorse-bush in the mist shook again like a swaying human 
figure, and somehow he could not turn his back upon it. 
He smiled at his folly. The meeting with old Y. had 
281 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

unhinged him. Of course there could be no one there. 
The people of the village would be going to bed. Pixies 
were extinct — besides that figure of his imagination was 
no little person, but a giant, a Corineus. And as for con- 
victs the only ones to escape rifle-shot had been accounted 
for by the bogs. No convict could make that dreaded 
“ crossing ” in winter without a guide. 

The next minute Burrough was inside, searching for 
matches by the glow of peat upon the hearthstone. The 
lamp lighted, and its beams streaming across the moor 
from the uncurtained window — that window was called 
the lighthouse by the villagers — he felt easier in his 
mind, and wondered what had made him such a fool. 
Unable to work or read, or indeed to do anything but 
dream, he flung himself upon the lounge, watching the 
smoke drifting, listening to the ponies stamping outside. 
Only a wall of granite blocks separated him from the 
sheltering animals and the swaying gorse-bushes. When 
a shaggy pony bumped or scratched itself upon the rough 
wall he became aware of it ; and he thought he could 
hear the prickles of the gorse scraping against the 
stones. 

Then the onion-seller became an enemy. It was the 
visit of that Breton which had upset Burrough in the 
first instance, and his going away had left him hopelessly 
unsettled. Through his means Burrough was transported 
into smiling scenery. He left Dartmoor winds and 
vapours, to roam in warm valleys, amid white flowers, 
between blue hills covered with grape-vines. A face 
began to reveal itself and a figure clad in oilskins, a 
fisher-girl going down to the boats with a stable lantern 
in her hand and strings of onions upon her shoulder. It 
282 


How Burrough received Visitors. 

seemed to Burrough he was gazing out from his window 
and the scene was in Brittany, although surrounded by 
Cornish cliffs. And near him upon a boulder the fisher- 
girl was sitting, and he looked, and it was Beatrice with 
Breton onions, Cornish oil-skins, and old Y.’s stable 
lantern. Then Dartmoor vapours rolled down, the 
sunshine disappeared, the wind howled, the water roared 
for a moment in the gorge — and then he fancied himself 
walking with Beatrice hand in hand, just as he had 
walked with her a few months before along the Apron 
String, and into their fanciful little kingdom of Blissland 
by the river of ferns. 

This picturesque dream was interrupted by what would 
have been prosaic enough in most places, but there was 
romantic, even terrifying, and causing in Burrough a 
reflex of feeling that swallowed up imagination and left 
him, not so much in amazement, as a state of terror. 
He was aroused by a knock upon the door. 

At last he went to receive the ghostly visitor. He 
dragged the door open desperately, prepared to see the 
outline of a Brittany onion- seller, or a Devonshire pixy, 
or a Cornish giant. It appeared to be the latter. A tall 
upright figure stood there, and a pleasant musical voice 
apologised for troubling the gentleman, but would he 
direct him towards the nearest station. The mists had 
caught him upon the moor and he had lost his way. 

In wild places every human habitation is ' an inn. 
During his wanderings Burrough had frequently received 
the invitation, “ Do ye come in and pitch.” In English 
more classical he repeated the customary formula, and 
the stranger at once bent his head and entered. 

^‘Good heaven! Another Frenchman.” Such was 
283 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

Burrough’s mental exclamation. First a Breton onion- 
seller, and now a Norman fisherman. Were the western 
moors overrun by the French peasantry ? Had they 
conquered and seized West Wales as Beatrice fondly 
called her dear land, and was this white-haired Barbarossa 
quartered upon him as a punishment for his sins ? 
Certainly the stranger’s face was Norman ; but as 
assuredly his speech was Cornish. Burrough remembered 
that the types are similar. But a second visitor — ^that 
was the amazing incident — a second visitor that day 1 

A finer specimen of a man he had never seen. Tall, 
upright, and somewhat thin ; his face would have been 
attractive anywhere, and have arrested the attention of 
anyone given to ethnological inquiry — it was weather 
beaten, sharp-lined, and wonderfully free from wrinkles, 
although the man must have been more than sixty ; that 
fact was proclaimed by the crisp white hair. It was a 
beautiful face, a Sir Galahad type of face, and its smile 
was gentle, maternal rather than masculine, and even 
sweet if such an epithet could be applied to the smile of 
any man. He was in fisherman’s costume ; long boots 
well above the knees, corded breeches, thick ribbed 
jersey half concealed by a rough jacket, and around his 
neck was a snowy muffler, and upon his head was an oil- 
skin hat shaped exactly like the barber’s basin sported by 
the knight of La Mancha as the helmet of Mambrino. 

“ This is different from your Cornish weather,” said 
Burrough, when he had persuaded the man to be seated. 

“ It’s cold there too,” said the fisherman. “ And 
windy, sir, beside the sea.” 

“I know you are from Cornwall. Your speech 
betrays you. So does your face. I am wondering what 
284 


How Burrough received Visitors. 

brings you upon Dartmoor,” Burrough went on, while 
he stirred the peat and put on some sticks to make 
a blaze. 

“Yes, sir, us Cornish folk don^t travel much. Tm up 
to see a friend to Chagford. Walking across the moor I 
lost my bearings.” 

“You are perfectly right. You are making straight 
for the station,” said Burrough. “ But if you crossed 
from Chagford you have done a wonderful thing. I 
couldn’t do it this time of year and I know the moor. I 
see by your boots you escaped the bogs. How did you 
manage it? ” 

“ I came a bit round, sir,” explained the fisherman,' 
with his singularly pleasant smile. 

Burrough knew that the man was not telling him the 
truth. Making for the Cornish line from Chagford he 
would certainly pass that way, if he struck across the 
moor. That he had not done so was obvious by the 
state of his boots, which ought to have been plastered 
with bog-mud, but were perfectly clean. Several thoughts 
occurred to Burrough, all strange ones. He noticed 
whenever he looked up that the fisherman withdrew his 
gaze hurriedly. He noticed also the woollen wrapper 
round the man’s neck. That had not been made by his 
wife or daughter ; and he would scarcely have bought 
anything so dainty. The last time he had seen such a 
wrapper was when Beatrice was walking in the rain ; and 
the wrapper was lying upon her dark brown hair. He 
smiled to himself with a kind of triumph. 

“ I must be getting on, sir. Thank^ye kindly,” said 
the old man with simple dignity. 

“Fill your pipe before you go,” said Burrough, 
285 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

handing over his tobacco jar. “What would you like to 
drink — a glass of beer ? 

“Thank’ye kindly,” said the fisherman again, with the 
smile which seemed to convey a blessing with it. 

Burrough brought the beer and the fisherman accepted 
it with a courteous gesture. The young man for reasons 
of his own made it his business to keep as much as 
possible away from the light. He tried to appear at his 
best before the old fisherman. He talked brightly and 
laughed continually, and did all else that was possible to 
make a favourable impression. The gentle old fellow 
laughed too, and was obviously well pleased at his 
reception, and quite satisfied with his host ; but for all 
that he declared he must be getting on his way. 

“You cannot get home to-night,” said Burrough. 

“I’m going to Plymouth, sir. I have friends to 
Torpoint. Is it far to the station, sir ? ” 

“ I’ll show you the shortest way if you wait until I put 
on my boots.” 

Burrough was soon back ready to start, but first he had 
a question for the old fisherman. He asked him what he 
thought of Chagford. The visitor replied he didn’t think 
much of the place, which was right and proper, as he 
was a Cornishman, and therefore possessed of hereditary 
hatred for everything that appertained unto Devonshire. 

“ But a very fine town,” argued Burrough. “ Splendid 
buildings. Of course you saw the town-hall ? Didn’t 
you admire that ?” 

“Yes, sir, a very fine building,” admitted the 
fisherman. 

“And the big park with the pavilion and bandstand 
You’ve nothing like that in Cornwall.” 

286 


How Burrough received Visitors. 

Yes, sir, a very fine park,” agreed the fisherman. 

“ And the theatre. As big as anything in Plymouth,” 
continued Burrough relentlessly. 

“ Yes, sir, a very fine theatre,” came the monotonous 
reply. 

Burrough turned to lower the lamp, and the knightly 
old fisherman walked towards the door. The young man 
was greatly excited. So this visit was Beatrice’s answer 
to his long letter. And this man, who had probably 
never been out of Cornwall before ; who professed to 
have walked over the moor from Chagford without getting 
mud on his boots ; who knew so much about the moor- 
land village as to agree when he heard it described as a 
town with parks, fine buildings, and theatres ; who asked 
moreover to be directed to the station from whence he had 
only recently proceeded for the express purpose of sub- 
jecting Burrough to a close scrutiny — who was this 
man, if he were not Poltesco, the faithful fisherman 
of St. Sennen Church-Town? 


287 


CHAPTER XXV. 


HOW BEATRICE SAT IN THE DIMPSY.^ 

The cold wind and showers of sleet which had visited 
Dartmoor were the results of a storm upon the Atlantic. 
There had been high seas upon North Cornwall, seas 
which tossed the biggest ships as though they had been 
cockle-shells, and broke up the small ones like a lion 
crunching a bone. From Cape Cornwall to Trebarwith 
Strand the coast had been strewn with the pathetic 
rubbish of wreckage. An empty bottle of Hollands and 
a baby’s coral were lying side by side in Porthmeer Cove 
quaint partners of tragedy. And at Porth Zennor a man 
was cast up by the sea. 

It was Beatrice who discovered the body. She was 
out the morning after the storm, clad in oilskins, search- 
ing for curiosities to add to her museum — for the sea 
brought her treasures from China to Peru — and she 
perceived the white face bobbing beside the rocks. 
Like a cat the cruel sea had captured its victim and was 
now playing with it, patting it up to the land, and draw- 
ing it back before it could get too far. The girl 
scrambled down and secured the body and dragged it 
upon the rocks. The sight had no terror for her. She 
was not in the least afraid to touch it, although she had 
been once frightened out of her wits by the one-legged 
fisherman, and had been more repelled than she would 
* Twilight. 

288 


How Beatrice sat in the Dimpsy. 

own by the sight of Burrough’s disfigurement. That 
body was not mutilated ; only bruised, and its poor hands 
were chafed terribly. The man was a French fisherman 
come to beg a little earth from England, and the right to 
stop there. He was a young man and married ; for there 
was a ring upon his little finger, a worthless ring, but made 
precious by the dark hair worked around it. 

After rescuing the body from the sea, Beatrice sat down 
and sobbed. Here was half-a-century of useful life 
wasted by a sudden passion of wind. The joy of life was 
strong within her. She loved every day of the year, sun- 
shine or storm; her prayer was for long life — nothing 
else — sorrow, sickness, poverty, were more endurable 
than the thought of losing her beautiful body. With her, 
as with her Aunt, it was body first, the rest nowhere. So 
she cried for the poor Frenchman because he had lost 
his body. She would not have shed a tear for the widow. 
Why should she ? The widow could go on enjoying the 
use of her body. 

“ Poor man,” said Beatrice softly. “ I am sure you 
were nice and you worked hard for your wife. Perhaps 
you worked too hard, and didn’t think enough of your- 
self.” Then she frowned, and shook her head at the 
sea. “ Why will you spoil my home ? ” said she. 
“ These rocks were not put here for you to wreck ships 
upon. You have given us another funeral, and I hate 
you for it.” She lowered her voice. “ It is not the fault 
of the sea, after all. It’s the wind, and I don’t know 
what’s to blame for that.” 

She got up, shook the tears from her lashes, and the 
spray from her eyebrows, and hurried up the cliffs to 
make her discovery known. 

p.p. 289 u 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

The old gabled house, which was Beatrice’s own pro- 
perty and had been in her family for hard upon two 
centuries, was very near the sea. It was protected against 
the worst gales by a furze-covered hill which, report 
declared, was the original Tom Tiddler’s ground where 
the misguided mortal had stuffed his pockets with furze- 
blooms for gold. It stood in a slight hollow planted 
with great fuschias, hydrangeas, and escallonias. Beatrice 
had uprooted the rhododendrons, which were flourishing 
in great abundance when she came of age, because she 
considered they looked mournful in winter and in summer 
neither bird nor insect would dwell within them. In their 
place she had induced heather and bracken to grow, 
thus bringing the moorland characteristics to the very 
door of her home. 

Beatrice was in a restless mood during those days 
which followed the storm. She felt that a great change 
threatened her life, the greatest change that can occur 
either to man or maid, and the thought of it unsettled 
her. It was necessary ; that point she yielded. But it 
meant a breaking up of existing conditions, a certain 
amount of self-surrender, and probably a slight curtail- 
ment of her strange pleasures. She paid a flying visit to 
Sennen and came back thoughtful. She began letters 
and tore them up. She consulted her oracles, only to 
disregard the omens that they gave. She visited old wives 
at Forth Zennor and asked them their opinions upon 
various matters which interested her then. She tackled 
the fishermen and sought to hear what they thought of 
life and its environment. The answers she obtained 
were not encouraging. They threw her back after all 
upon her own feelings. The old wives seemed to be 
290 


How Beatrice sat in the Dimpsy. 

slightly cynical. They told her it was the duty of every 
maid to secure a man for herself and to keep him if she 
could. They assured her it was as well to extend the 
period of courtship, by which they meant no doubt 
the “ walking out,” as much as possible, because that — 
and there the cynicism cropped up — was the best part of 
married life. It amused Beatrice to think that the joys of 
matrimony should be over before they had legally 
commenced ; but that was the way of the world with a 
class which did not seek the ceremony until local senti- 
ment and public morality demanded it. As for the 
fishermen they evaded the main issue and harped 
principally upon the habitation clause. They were afraid 
Beatrice might be leaving the country, so they assured 
her that anyone who had lived upon the Cornish coast 
could not settle or die in peace elsewhere. “ You may 
travel over the world, east or west,” said one. And 
when you’ve done it all, you’ll find there’s only Cornwall 
and you’ll come back.” Beatrice declared there was 
no danger of her departure. She could not live out of 
her native air ; and she laughed her agreement with the 
fisherman, when he declared, with racial antipathies to 
the West Saxons, that England east of Exeter was a 
wilderness. 

The body of the young Frenchman was lying in the 
church which stood upon a hill. Beatrice walked there 
towards evening. Her love for that wild rocky coast was 
fully developed then, and she doubted whether she could 
love any living creature as much as she loved her life 
and her home. She did not find it dull. Her day was 
fully occupied; she had friends in all directions; she 
knew everyone in the district, from the youngest child to 
291 u 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

the oldest greybeard. Her complete independence 
satisfied her. She knew she could do what she liked ; 
that she could depart any day ; and with that knowledge 
she was content. 

ril go and sit in the porch. I’ll make up my mind 
there,” said she. 

First she raised herself on tiptoe beside a window, and 
looked inside the church. In the faint gloom she could 
just see the dim outline of the drowned fisherman, whose 
name and dwelling place were unknown, stretched upon 
the bier. Something was moving upon the uneven tiles 
beneath. Beatrice rubbed the glass with her finger, 
strained her eyes, and made out a mouse gliding smoothly 
to and fro. She shivered a little, because her stored up 
folk-lore suggested the tales where the human soul had 
been seen escaping in the form of a mouse. It seemed 
to her that the soul of the French fisherman was roving 
about the deserted church. The wind from the sea made 
the pane moist again. Beatrice stepped down and passed 
into the porch. 

The church had been built of Cornish granite perhaps 
a thousand years before. Surrounding it were monuments 
of still greater antiquity, dating from the Age of Bronze, 
before the coming of the Celts when broad-headed 
savages occupied the neighbouring moorland before 
Romulus and Remus had been suckled. It was not 
surprising that romance should die slowly in such an 
old-world place. Not so very long ago a famous ghost- 
layer had there wrestled with the powers of darkness. 
In the field adjoining the churchyard he had subdued the 
unquiet spirit of a poor ruined girl. Beatrice knew the 
spot where the good man had marked his pentacle in the 
292 


How Beatrice sat in the Dimpsy. 

midst of a circle, and at the intersection of the five angles 
had set up his crutch of rowan. She accepted such 
stories as these, and never asked herself seriously whether 
she believed in them. She herself knew all the spells 
necessary to lay a ghost ; and had there occurred within the 
church that soft and rippling sound,” which denoted 
the approach of an unquiet spirit, she would have been 
up at once, taking her station south, on the true line of 
the meridian, and facing due north, as her witch 
instructress had taught her. 

But the poor young Frenchman inside the church was 
peaceful. He made no soft and rippling sound. He 
was lying in the cobwebby gloom ; and staring down upon 
him were monstrous mediaeval frescoes and horrible 
faces in stone, more suggestive of an evil dream than 
religious symbolism. The mouse and the spiders and 
the dead man made no noise. Outside there was the 
wind. It was always windy there, and the murmur or the 
roaring of the sea came with it. As Beatrice sat in the 
porch dry leaves darted in strange fashion across the tiles, 
and scraps of heather and dried fronds of bracken scraped 
and tumbled about her little boots. 

She was her normal self ; quite warm and happy ; and 
although slightly troubled in her mind she still refused 
to take things very seriously. It was her rule not to think 
unpleasantly, and thus she was able to sit in that gloomy 
porch, with the darkness coming up, and the memorials 
of departed Cornish folk around, and the wind drifting 
the wreckage of autumn up and down, without feeling 
the least qualm of dread. She looked at the roof of the 
porch and at the ancient church door, covered with half- 
rotten clamps, thinking and wondering. She thought 
293 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

about the man in the cottage by the gorge. She 
wondered if, about the time of the first primrose, she 
would pass that door and across that porch, in “ faire 
white samite,” with a crown of spring blossoms, and a 
ring of gold upon the finger where, according to the 
Decretal, is a certain vein which reaches to the heart. 
Beatrice had seen the old book still kept in chains within 
the church, containing among offices and divers benedic- 
tions the pre-reformation order of matrimony. She had 
read the words with which many a maid then lying long 
forgotten in the surrounding acre had blushingly com- 
mitted herself ; she had written them in her prayer-book ; 
she had them by heart; and she murmured them as she 
sat in the windy porch : — 

“ I Beatrice take the John to be my wedded housbonder, 
to have and to holde fro this day forwarde, for better for 
wors, for richere for poorer, in sykenesse and in hele, to 
be bonere and buxum in bedde and at the borde, tyll 
dethe us departe, if holy chyrche it woll ordeyne, and 
thereto I plight the my trouthe.” 

“ It rests with myself. My destiny is in my own hands,’ ’ 
said she. 

There were sycamore leaves drifting past the porch. 
Beatrice had been watching them, and in an idle way 
counting them up to a dozen or so, then forgetting the 
exact number and starting afresh. Suddenly she drew 
out her watch. There was just light enough for her to 
see the hands upon the dial and the dry leaves passing 
outside. 

“ If twelve leaves, or more than twelve, pass completely 
across in two minutes I will marry in the spring.” 

She sat on in silence, and the leaves drifted by one by 
294 


How Beatrice sat in the Dimpsy. 

one. The issue was never in doubt ; for at the end of the 
first minute there came a wintry gust which sent more 
than a score of black-spotted leaves rustling past. 
Beatrice put away her watch with a little smile ; but as she 
rose to depart a cross-current caught the big leaves that 
had gone by and whisked them back again. 

“ You can’t undo it,” said she, frowning and addressing 
the heedless wind. You may blow the leaves wherever 
you like now, but you shan’t blow me back again. I have 
made up my mind ; it’s fixed due east, and blow out your 
cheeks as you like it’s not going to point in any other 
direction. Blow into the church, if you must blow, and 
into the lungs of the poor French fisherman and give him 
his life again.” 

Beatrice was in ill-humour with the windy brethren. 
One of them had raised the storm which had been the 
cause of bringing the body into her own particular cove ; 
another had turned back the flight of her augural leaves. 
If she could have captured those two windy brothers she 
would have put them into the devil’s frying-pan at 
Cadgewith there to seethe and bubble till they burst. 

Little Miss Pentreath was in bed, unpainted, unappa- 
relled, unadorned ; as dreary a sight as a dismantled 
theatre. She was suffering from an attack of bronchitis, 
which prostrated her every autumn, and that season had 
been more severe than usual. A bed had been made up 
for her downstairs amid the cheerful surroundings which 
prevailed on the ground floor, as she did not like to be ill 
in a bedroom. Beatrice sympathised with her. Had she 
been ill she would have gone out to lie on the heather ; 
and that was precisely the remedy which she had pre- 
scribed for her Aunt. 


295 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

** Darling, I’m so glad you’re back. I went to sleep 
and had a horrible dream, and woke with screams and 
shivers,” was Miss Pentreath’s greeting, as the girl came 
in. Come and shake my pillows, and let me feel you, 
warm, glowing, healthy, lovely thing. Oh, that colour on 
your cheeks ! I never could copy it, though I hunted 
through London and Paris. I never could make my 
cheeks like yours, could I, Trixy ? ” 

“ No, dear. They were rather Dutch-dolly. But it 
served you right. Going to England for what only 
Cornwall could give.” 

** I hoped you would contradict me. You are so 
downright in your negatives,” sighed Miss Pentreath. 
“ Whenever I asked you how I looked you always had a 
knock-me-down answer.” 

“ I’m going to knock-you-down again,” laughed 
Beatrice. I’m going to tell you something which will 
either kill or cure. How will you have it — in two words, 
or a speech ? All together, or broken gently ? Gilded, 
or bitter ? Plain, or varnished ?” 

“ I won’t have it at all,” cried the invalid. Don’t 
worry me just as I am getting better. I am much better 
this evening, Trixy. I am not going to listen to horrors, 
wrecked ships, drowned sailors, bogged moormen — let’s 
have tea and be snug, and see if we can’t find something 
nice to talk about.” 

I’m not going to spare you, Auntie. You have got to 
listen, and you may scream if you are moved so to do. 
You may also call me a toad, or compare me to any other 
of the reptilian creation which it may appear to you I 
particularly resemble.” 

“ Go on, you bully,” grumbled the little lady. “I’m 
296 


How Beatrice sat in the Dimpsy. 

entirely in your power. You will give me insomnia, and 
you won’t even be sorry.” 

Do you think, Auntie,” Beatrice went on, seating 
herself upon the bed and speaking rather quickly, “ that if 
a man were very fond of me he could exist without me ? ” 

“ Why, of course he could. What a horribly conceited 
thing to say,” gasped Miss Pentreath. “ I’ve been very 
fond of some men in my time, but I’m still alive, and 
I intend to remain so.” 

“ But if he were lonely and sad, and very fond of me ?” 
Beatrice persisted. 

I always thought you were more likely to black a 
man’s eye than break his heart,” said Miss Pentreath, 
evading the question. 

“ Don’t be frivolous, else I’ll call you an old woman, 
which is the truth, though you don’t like to hear it.” 

“You’re a toad, Beatrice. I don’t care— you are. A 
big bloated toad, clammy and horrible. Go away.” 

“And you’re a very Methuselah of an old woman.” 

“I can’t keep it up. I’m too weak,” laughed Miss 
Pentreath. “ Anyhow, you always win in a slanging 
match.” 

“ I’ve broken off a nice big bit of the news,” the girl went 
on. “ I’ve given you the broadest of hints. Now then, 
dear — what was your head given you for ? ” 

“ You are going to marry him .? ” gasped Miss 
Pentreath ; and she rolled over in the bed and groaned. 

“ I’ve made up my mind at last. I am going to marry 
him,” said Beatrice. 

“ Where are you going to live ? ” asked the invalid, 
after a silent interval which Beatrice occupied by attending 
to the fire. 


297 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

“ Here nine months of the year. The other three 
on Dartmoor. Cheer up, Auntie. You shall keep house. 
I can’t.” 

“ You’re not going to desert me ? You’re not going to 
turn me out?” cried Miss Pentreath. “Then I don’t 
care. You shall marry with my blessing, Trixy. You’re 
not a toad at all. You’re a darling, and if I could get 
out of bed I’d come and bite you.” 

“ I’ll draw near to be bitten,” said the girl. 

After this ritual act had been accomplished Beatrice rang 
the bell and the maid brought in lamps and tea. Curtains 
were drawn, peat and w^ood in equal quantities were piled 
upon the fire, and it was all very snug. Miss Pentreath 
actually had a little natural colouring upon her cheeks. 
She sat up in bed, laughed over her tea, and was very 
happy now that she knew Beatrice was not intending to 
desert her. When the maid left them Miss Pentreath 
put a dozen questions in one breath, and with the next 
respiration signified her willingness to make up for the 
part of bridesmaid. This called down upon her the 
reproof, — 

“ You will wear a bonnet and black silk dress, trimmed 
with your best lace, and you’ll carry a huge prayer-book 
and look proper.” 

“ I won’t,” cried Miss Pentreath. “ Take care, Beatrice, 
or you’ll revert to the reptilian state. I shall wear white 
mousse line-de-sote, with pink baby-ribbon and picture 
hat, satin shoes, lace stockings.” 

“ Shut up,” laughed Beatrice. “ I don’t want to know 
what clothes you are going to wear or what complexion 
you intend to put on. You’re not my fairy godmother. 
You’re my aunt, and you’ve got to be my best-woman. 

298 


How Beatrice sat in the Dimpsy. 

I’m going to be married early in the spring,” she went 
on. “ My marriage day will depend on the wild prim- 
roses. The Wednesday following the opening of the 
first primrose I shall give up my Cornish name.” 

“ What a whimsical creature it was,” murmured Miss 
Pentreath. “Really darling,” she added, “you have 
wrapped yourself up in witchcraft, stupid superstition, and 
pixy-tales until I believe you’ve forgotten you are living 
in a hard-hearted and practical age.” 

“ That doesn’t matter. We are out of the hard-hearted 
age here. Anyhow, I am contemplating a practical act,” 
said Beatrice. 

“ But, tell me, what you have been doing lately. What 
has made you alter your mind ? You said you couldn’t 
bear to look at the poor dear man — ” 

“Neither could I. But he’s all right now, not quite as 
he was, of course, still good enough for me. I liked him 
very much from the beginning, and when I got to know 
him better I liked him much more. Then I was a good 
deal to blame for that horrible accident. I shall never 
find a man more devoted to me than he is. He’s clever, 
too, and I appreciate cleverness. He’s a writer, and I 
want to tell him all my experiences upon the moor, and 
my thoughts, and my little bits of folk stories ; and he 
can write them out for me. We shall get on very well 
together. I shall be as free as I am now. I wouldn’t 
marry except on that condition. We shall work in the 
morning, he and I — putting down all the folk-lore in the 
West. In the afternoon we shall be upon the moor.” 

“All this ‘we,’ this great ‘we,’” interrupted Miss 
Pentreath with piteous scorn. “ What about me?” 

“ You shall stop at home and make the puddings, dear.” 

299 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

I quite perceive I am to play gooseberry-fool,” sighed 
the invalid. “ Well, I must bear it. Custom has made 
it a something of easiness. Is Mr. Burrough here ? ” she 
asked. “ Are you going to produce him suddenly ?” 

“And you most modestly abed! Well, he wouldn’t 
recognise you off the stage so to speak. I haven’t seen 
him since that evening when we gathered pixy-flowers in 
the copse, and you lighted the furze upon Brynamoor.” 

“ Then how do you know about his restoration ? ” cried 
Miss Pentreath, wonderingly. 

“ I sent my child. He has reported most favourably,” 
Beatrice explained, my child being her usual name for 
Poltesco. “ He was immensely taken with poor Jack, 
and he has signified his entire approval of my choice.” 

“Fantastic person!” murmured the invalid. 

“Fantastic, am I?” laughed Beatrice, rolling her cat 
over upon the rug. “ That’s nothing to what I’m going 
to do. I’m going to write to him this very night, post the 
letter to-morrow care of Bingie & Co., and perhaps it 
won’t be delivered till goodness knows when.” 

“ How fond you are of these stupid mysteries. Who 
is Bingie ? ” complained her aunt. 

“The guardian of the bogs, my dear. The little 
person who rules the pools and wishing-wells. The 
letter may be delivered before winter sets in. If it isn’t 
I must write and explain ; for when the wild weather 
comes the post-office will be closed, and won’t open for 
business until all the spring primroses have faded.” 

“ As for those primroses,” said a rebellious voice from 
the bed. “ At the end of January I shall instruct the 
children to look out for the first flowers ; and I shall offer 
sixpence for every one destroyed.” 

300 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


HOW IT WAS DREARY BESIDE THE GORGE. 

Even on Dartmoor the hours after noon on Saturday 
may not be violated by work. It is a time of beer-drink- 
ing, debt-renewing, and ballad-singing ; when the heads 
of families are gathered together into one place — the 
village inn ; and the wives assemble in the market town 
to lay up provision for the coming week. 

It was a Saturday in November, and the little village of 
Lew-upon-the-Moor appeared deserted. Ballads were 
being sung hoarsely and incoherently in Eastaway’s 
inn, where that worthy soul was rattling into the till the 
wages he had just paid out; but the long street was 
empty, except for geese and dogs and the inevitable 
plague of fowls. Not even the witless face of old Y. 
was to be seen looking over his gate. The last summer 
visitor had left a month ago, and the parlour in every 
cottage had been set in order and closed for six long 
months. The reign of the winds had commenced. 

Looking down the village one might have observed a 
quaint object in the iriiddle of the road. It was a three- 
legged milking-stool. It was also a symbol of indepen- 
dence and a defiance to the parish. If a cart had come 
that way the driver would have dismounted to remove 
the stool, so that his horse should not stumble over it, 
and would then have replaced it prudently rather than 
301 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

with reverence. Even the animals avoided that stool. 
Every living creature had learnt to respect the tongue of 
its owner. Mrs. Cobbledick had always milked her cows 
in the middle of the road, and she intended to persevere 
in that practice so long as she might live. 

In due time Ann appeared with a milking-pail, which 
had an indifferent claim to newness and cleanliness, 
leading Artful Twoad, her favourite cow, by a piece of 
rope, twisted about the animal’s neck, and so rotten that 
a single tug would have snapped it. Having placed the 
cow precisely in the centre of the road, with many a 
“ Do ye get up,” “Do ye get back,” and “Do ye bide 
still,” for it had never yet occurred to her that it would 
be easier to shift the stool than to place the cow beside 
it, she wiped her hands upon her apron, which by its 
appearance might have been used for cleansing the 
interior of a grate, and devoted herself to professional 
duties, calling out occasionally to Willum who was 
loafing beside the kitchen fire before going to loaf in the 
village inn. 

Soon there came a mighty gust of wind which threatened 
to remove Mrs. Cobbledick, milking-stool, and Artful 
Twoad from the face of the moor. Both ladies objected, 
one of them by whisking her tail, and the other by scream- 
ing “ Christmas ! ” her customary expletive, which had 
the merit of being not merely harmless but actually 
tinged with a suggestion of sanctity. 

“Come out,” she called. “There be a frisky wind. 
Do ye good, old dear.” 

After a little more admonition Willum appeared, hands 
in his pockets and apparently rooted there. He con- 
sidered the time had come for him to exchange the 
302 


How it was Dreary beside the Gorge. 

fireside for the inn, that he might relieve his distressing 
malady by copious draughts of ale. Not that he expected 
any foaming gifts from Eastaway. A distinct coldness 
had sprung up between the stonebreaker and the house 
of Cobbledick, since Willum had acquired the tombstone 
by such unscrupulous methods. The scholar never 
entered the bar-room until he had first satisfied himself, 
either that Eastaway was absent or that several villagers 
were present with him. Possession being in that com- 
munity the entire ten points of the law, Eastaway had 
come to regard the thirty shillings due to him for the 
stone as a bad debt ; but he had not yet come to regard 
the mean old widow and her crafty son as brother and 
sister, although Griffey the preacher made a point of 
insisting that he should do so. As, however, Griffey 
regarded his brothers and sisters in practice very much 
as a man who is digging regards worms, the publican 
did not feel compelled to conform to his pulpit teachings. 

** Don’t ye take her head. Her won’t hurt I,” cried 
the widow when Willum, under a sudden fit of energy, 
made as though he would hold the rotten rope, and 
thereby run the risk of straining himself. “You be 
getting thin, Willum. You be wasting cruel. You mun 
eat more butter.” 

Willum raised objections. He explained that liquid 
foods were assimilated with greater ease and possessed 
far superior flesh-forming qualities. In his opinion the 
food most admirably adapted to his case was the exhilarat- 
ing beverage prepared from farinaceous grain by a 
process of fermentation. “ I mun drink more beer,” 
was his summing up of the matter ; and that he might 
put this laudable design into immediate practice he 
303 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

extorted sixpence from the widow by means of a few 
churchyard coughs. 

“ It be getting rough on the moor,” said Ann, butting 
her grey head into Artful Twoad’s side to make that 
patient animal more mindful of its duties. 

“ Wannell were going after his bullocks, but he’s let 
’em bide,” replied Willum. Says ’tis as much as his 
life is worth to go up on Dartmoor wi’ the frisk blowing.” 

So ’tis. Don’t ye go up, Willum. You’d be pixy- 
led sure enough and get stugged. ’Tis the first year 
the Dart have took no one,” she went on, screwing her 
head round to contemplate the ruddy features of her son. 

“ Year ain’t over yet,” the scholar reminded her. 

Dart don’t take ’en in winter. Takes ’en in summer. 
One year a man, next year a maid. ’Tis how it used to 
be, but the old ways have changed. Took that lady last 
year. Dart did. Her went in after the little maid that 
Dart were taking, and Dart took she instead. Her warn’t 
a maid, ’cause her were married. Bide still. Artful. The 
old ways have changed. Cows don’t give milk like they 
used to when I was a maid.” 

Seeing that Willum was anxious to join the ballad- 
singers and fatten upon malted liquors, the mischief- 
making dame changed her subject, that she might detain 
her son until the milking was finished, and hinted darkly 
that the note, which Beatrice had left in her charge for 
the owner of the cottage by the gorge, might be ” dis- 
covered ” and forwarded to the person who had the most 
right to it. 

I tore ’en up,” Willum replied, with a malicious grin. 
“ Tore ’en up the day after I shot his old cat. He wouldn’t 
pay for ’en. Told I to go and work. Let ’en work hisself.” 

304 


How it was Dreary beside the Gorge. 

‘‘ Told ye to work,” cried the widow shrilly. “ The 
mucky twoad ! Her called 'en ‘ dear Jack,’ in the letter,” 
she went on, relapsing into pure scandal. “ Called 
herself ‘ Bill.’ What du it mean, Willum ? ” 

“ It ain’t for me to say,” replied the scholar mysteriously. 
“ Her was bad, and he’m bad, sure enough. Her wouldn’t 
call herself by a man’s name if her warn’t bad.” 

“ You never caught ’em together,” muttered the 
strictly moral old woman sorrowfully. 

‘‘ They got away from I,” her son explained. “ I never 
could find ’em. They went too quick for I. Got into 
lew places on Dartmoor where I couldn’t find ’em.” 

“ They was ashamed to be seen,” commented Mrs. 
Cobbledick, as she rose from her stool. “ Honest folk 
like we stops in the village. Us don’t go on Dartmoor to 
talk. I milks Artful in the middle of the road, ’cause I 
ain’t ashamed to be seen. I’m proud of it, Willum. 
Honest folk be always proud to be seen. They don’t 
hide themselves on Dartmoor. And when a maid calls 
herself Bill — well, I wouldn’t let she stop wi’ me if her 
didn’t pay us well.” 

With these virtuous sentiments her son entirely agreed. 
As he moved away, to spend the evening in the vitiated 
atmosphere of the bar-room, he summed up the situation 
with the remark, “ Her won’t marry ’en. Her be a lady, 
and he be only half a gentleman, though he reckons he’m 
a whole one ; and he bain’t a scholar, though he reckons 
he be; and he’ve only one eye, though he reckons us 
don’t know it.” 

“ Her b’ain’t no lady,” cried Mrs. Cobbledick, harsh 
naturally upon her own sex. “ Her be no better than an 
actress.” This was the unkindest thing the unkindly 
p.p. 305 X ‘ 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

soul could think of. “Artful be more of a lady than she. 
Get over, Artful ! Come back early, Willum,” she called 
after the slouching figure. “ Til have a nice supper for 
ye, old dear.” 

Five minutes later the village street was once more 
silent and deserted — given over to the geese and fowls — 
and the three-legged stool occupied the centre of the 
road until dusk. 

That same afternoon Burrough was lying upon his bed. 
He was not well. He had a feverish headache, and his 
temperature was slightly above normal. For the last two 
days he had not been out ; he was depressed by the wild 
and wintry weather, by the knowledge that he could do 
no work, by the overwhelming sense of his loneliness, 
and by the fact that he had heard nothing of Beatrice 
since the fisherman’s visit. Ill in body and worried in 
mind as he was, he began to wonder whether the experi- 
ences of that day had actually occurred. He had been 
dreaming a great deal lately owing to the disturbed con- 
dition of his brain ; and sometimes he doubted whether 
he had been visited by the onion-seller in the first instance, 
and then by Poltesco, and whether he had walked out 
that evening and talked with old Y. under the Vicarage 
wall. His dreams had become a confused mixture of 
Breton valleys, Cornish cliffs and moors, pilchards and 
onions, old men with lanterns, screaming women and 
owls, and behind everything the vision of Beatrice, not 
quite as he had known her, but a graver, wiser Beatrice, 
sitting alone in fields of blue-flowered flax — that was the 
influence of the Breton — her hands clasped before her, 
and her distracting face always turned slightly away from 
him. He awoke with struggles, but the dream-picture 
306 


How it was Dreary beside the Gorge. 

accompanied his waking hours, until he found it no easy 
matter to sift the grain of fact from the chaff of 
imagination. 

From his position upon the bed he could command the 
moorland track, which heaved in the form of an arc right 
in front of his window. He could see everything that 
passed ; the big horned sheep, the bullocks, and shaggy 
ponies. He looked continually along that rough bend of 
narrow road, wishing it was summer, longing to see some 
familiar creature of his own species start suddenly into 
view. Nobody had come that way during the two days 
of his illness — which was mental rather than physical — 
except the postman bringing him daily newspapers, but 
no letters, no small envelope bearing the Sennen post- 
mark. He felt sure that Poltesco’s report had been 
unfavourable. Three weeks had passed since the fisher- 
man’s strange visit, and Beatrice had not spoken. It 
could only be because she did not like to tell him that 
his artificial eye would repel her, as the artificial leg of the 
old fisherman had repelled her years before. 

It began to grow dusk. Burrough stretched himself back 
upon the bed and closed his eyes. No one would come 
along the moorland track that day. Presently he roused 
himself to take his temperature. It had gone up slightly. 

He went on dreaming. Again the Breton became a 
prominent figure, almost an obsession. Burrough 
imagined him planting his onions, harvesting them, 
stringing them, crossing to Plymouth that he might hawk 
them in desolate places, and returning with a few shillings’ 
profit in his pocket to commence the trivial round again. 
He thought of the man’s wife and children, wondered 
how they managed to live, where their clothes came from, 
307 X 2 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

how often they had a meal ; and he envied the simple 
faith which made the success of the onion crop dependent 
upon the good-will of their blessed saints. Then he 
opened his eyes, dreading to fall again into the troubling 
realm of dreamland. Darkness was coming rapidly 
across the moor ; the track was almost obscured ; but 
his imagination had become so heightened, and the 
thought of the onion-seller possessed his mind so com- 
pletely, that he actually saw the Breton, swinging along 
towards the gorge, with the pole upon his shoulder, and 
a string of bronzed onions hanging at each end. 

“ This won’t do at all,” he muttered, turning aside with 
a shudder. 

He looked again. The darkness seemed to have 
increased marvellously in those few seconds, and it was 
not at first easy to distinguish the dull grey track between 
the black gorse-bushes. The apparition had vanished. 
Then a pony dashed across, its mane and tail streaming 
wildly, and Burrough heard others in front of his cottage 
apparently stampeding. There was a moment of silence, 
and then came a gentle rap-rap upon the door. 

Burrough sprang up, his head aching violently, but 
somehow not at all surprised. He was dressed, so he 
passed quickly downstairs, wrenched the door open, for 
the recent rains had caused the woodwork to swell, and w'as 
greeted at once with the shy smile and soft “ good day ” of 
the Breton, who was not an apparition at all, but the same 
man who had visited the cottage three weeks before, an 
hour or so before the coming of Poltesco, and had for 
some unaccountable reason remained an obsession ever 
since. 

“ You were kind to me the last time,” said the man in 
308 


How it was Dreary beside the Gorge. 

his own language. “ So I have come back to tell you 
something you may like to know.” 

“I am very glad to see you,” Burrough replied 
heartily. “ I am very lonely, and I am not well. 
Come in and talk to me, and spend the night here if 
you like.” 

“ No, no,” said the Breton. I must walk a long way 
to-night. I am going home.” 

He lowered the pole from his shoulder, and pointed 
at the two remaining strings of bulbs. “ Those are all I 
have left. I shall sell them as I go to Plymouth.” 

“ You will leave them here. I will buy them,” said 
Burrough. 

Thank you,” the Breton replied simply, and he 
gave a little sigh which was more eloquent than words. 
He could go back to his wife with money in his pockets, 
and tell her he had sold all his onions, and had moreover 
sold them well. 

Burrough felt restored. He was tingling with expecta- 
tion of good news as he brought the Frenchman to his 
fireside, and the headache left him as though by enchant- 
ment. Here was a second mysterious visit. Had the 
Breton gone through Cornwall in the course of his 
wanderings ; met Beatrice there ; told her the story of 
the lonely seigneur, who had shown him kindness in the 
tiny chateau upon Dartmoor; received a message for 
him from her, one of those cryptic messages in which 
Beatrice so delighted ? Had he beneath that rough jersey, 
very much like the one Poltesco had worn, something 
from the Cornish princess for the unfortunate and 
unhappy King of Trevalyor? That fairy-tale, which 
was not all a fairy-tale, came back vividly to Burrough’s 

309 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

mind. How long ago it seemed ! And how different 
their little kingdom by the river had been then ! 

Tell me. Have you been in Cornwall ? he asked. 

He was disappointed when the man smiled and shook 
his head. He had not been west of Plymouth. He had 
been in the mid-Devon villages, in the low, deeply- 
wooded swamp land, among the still almost primitive 
people of Zeal Monachorum and Bow, and the ancient 
hamlets along the northerly fringe of the moor. That 
morning he had been in Chagford, and had sold onions 
to the best known of the Dartmoor guides. 

“Have you come from Chagford.? Can you swear 
you come from there .? ” said Burrough excitedly, mindful 
of Poltesco’s deceitful story, of which this promised to 
be a repetition. 

The Breton swore by the blessed saints, who had 
brought him a plentiful harvest of onions, and had 
enabled him to sell them at excellent profit, and had, 
moreover, taken his wife and children beneath their pro- 
tection during his long absence, that he was speaking 
nothing but the truth. To satisfy Burrough he described 
the village, and when he had done so with complete 
accuracy, the young man expressed himself satisfied, and 
begged him to proceed. 

“The guide is a good man. He, too, was kind to 
me,” said the Breton, puffing at the cigarette which his 
host had given him. “ He told me he had been a great 
journey to a wild place, to the grande marais which he 
called Cranmere. He had done a service for a young 
lady.” 

“ Yes,” said Burrough, when the man paused. “ Go 
on.” 


310 


How it was Dreary beside the Gorge. 

“ The young lady sent him a letter, and told him to 
take it to Cranmere. There is a box ” 

“ I understand all that," the other interrupted. “ I 
know all about the postal system of Cranmere. Give 
me names. Who sent the letter ? ” 

“Ido not know. The guide did not say. But the 
letter was for you.” 

Burrough leaned forward. He placed a hand upon 
the Breton’s knee, and asked earnestly, “ How do you 
know that ? ’’ 

“ Because the guide told me who that letter was for. 
He asked me if I had heard of you. I told him I had 
seen you ’’ 

“ How did you know my name ? ’’ 

“ That evening after I left you I went into the 
village, and I asked for your name. You had been 
very good to me. I came here cold and unhappy. 
I had tramped a long way and sold no onions. You 
brought me in. You gave me tea and tobacco, and 
let me sit by your fire. When I left you I was 
happy and warm. I sold my onions well. You had 
brought me good fortune. You were my patron. So 
I asked for your name that I might remember it in my 
prayers.’’ 

Burrough was deeply touched. He took the Breton’s 
hand and shook it warmly, murmuring a few words of 
gratitude, not so much for the pious remembrance as for 
the information he had brought. He was grateful to 
discover that there were men eager to go out of their 
way to perform a kindly service in return for a very little 
kindness. He knew that not a single commoner would 
have made a dozen steps to bring him the information 
3 ” 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

which this poor alien had brought gladly. He thanked 
the Breton again and again. 

“ It is nothing,” said the man simply. ” I have not 
come out of my way. I could see that the guide did not 
wish you to know about the letter, but he did not ask me 
to keep silence. I would not interfere between you and 
the lady. But if I have helped you, and if I have made 
you happy, I am glad. There is one thing which makes 
a man happy, whether he is a gentleman or a poor 
onion-seller, and that is love. Is it not so ? ” 

“ You have done for me more than you know,” 
Burrough told him. “ You have made me very happy.” 

“ Then I am happy too,” said the Breton. 

‘‘You came to me before cold and unhappy, and you 
say I sent you away warm and satisfied. I was miserable 
and ill when you came just now, and you have made me 
happy. You have made me well.” 

The Breton’s honest eyes gleamed with pleasure, and 
he laughed as innocently as a child. 

“ It was the blessed St. Francis,” he said. “ I won- 
dered whether you would wish me to come and tell you, 
or whether you would not desire to know. There were 
magpies on the moor, and I prayed to St. Francis and 
said, ‘ If one magpie flies across the road I will not go. 
If two fly across I will.’ And the holy St. Francis heard 
my prayer and sent two.” 


312 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


HOW BURROUGH WENT TO DART HEAD. 

It was very dark upon the moor that night. There 
was a cold mist, and through it came from time to time 
stinging snow showers which could hardly be faced, 
because of the bitterness of the wind which brought them 
across the bare hills and bog land from the great plateau, 
which was the centre of Burrough’s thoughts from the 
hour the Breton left him. Hidden away in the tin box, 
which in its turn was safely enclosed within the soaked 
masses of peat forming the cairn in the centre of the 
land of desolation, was Beatrice’s letter, waiting for the 
next traveller upon Cranmere. Standing at his door, 
Burrough listened to the wind, felt the cold sting of the 
driven sleet, and thought of the region which separated 
him from the letter. 

The whimsical act was typical of Beatrice. She would 
be delighted to think that her message for him was at the 
poste resiante of the pixies. He knew that she secretly 
regarded Cranmere as the only place left where the little 
people existed. It was to Cranmere that he had sent the 
Cornish princess of his fairy-tale, that she might make 
her choice between the three kings. And now it was 
to Cranmere that she would send him to receive her final 
answer. 

That the letter in the cairn did contain her last word, 

313 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

he felt sure. Had it been otherwise, she would have 
written to him direct. The fact that she had chosen 
this method of communicating with him was convincing 
as to the importance of that letter. In the ordinary 
course of events he could not have known that she had 
written to him at Cranmere, and Beatrice would be well 
aware of it. She would be wondering every day whether 
any moorman had been upon the plateau where the 
rivers are born, or whether the pool had been rendered 
inaccessible by winter. She would know that her letter 
would be taken from the cairn almost at once, or that it 
must remain there until early summer. No doubt she 
had made up her mind to accept the conditions which 
the weather might be pleased to impose. That also was 
typical of Beatrice. If it were to remain fine, Burrough 
should learn his fate at once; if the winter were to appear 
suddenly, he would have to wait. She had sent her letter 
to Bingie’s post-office, and the issue remained in the 
hands of the pixies. 

Directly the Breton went away, Burrough commenced 
his preparations. It was Beatrice’s wish that he should 
receive his final answer at Cranmere, and to Cranmere 
he must go. They had stood together there. He had 
wished for her there. It was on the way back that she 
had learnt how greatly he loved her. It was on the way 
back he had met with the accident which had raised a 
barrier between them. The dreary wilderness of Cran- 
mere was the temple where their vows were to be 
exchanged. The cairn was the altar where the barrier 
was to be broken down. 

‘‘ I wish I had Peter,” said Burrough. Upon my 
soul, I would take him with me for company. I should 

314 


How Burrough went to Dart Head. 

have to carry the little man, but at least I should have 
someone to speak to.” 

For a moment, when he heard the sleet driven against 
the window and the water roaring more loudly than usual, 
his resolution weakened, and prudence dictated a policy 
of waiting. Why not write again to Poltesco, enclosing 
a letter for Beatrice, telling her he had become acquainted 
with her whimsical act ? But it would require four days 
to receive her answer, and in the meantime that letter 
would be lying in the cairn only seven miles away. And 
Beatrice would have a poor opinion of him if she thought 
it was fear that had prevented him from going to Cran- 
mere. Burrough then considered whether he might not 
pay someone to get the letter for him. There was wall- 
eyed Kellaway, who was said to know the moor thoroughly, 
and where to cross the bogs, however dense and white 
the mists. That idea he scouted also. In the first 
place, he could trust no one on such a mission. Besides, 
how could he confess to Beatrice that when he knew she 
was waiting for him on the moor he had not gone ? He 
had also an idea, which he dismissed as promptly, that 
wall-eyed Kellaway would decline to go. 

It seemed prosaic to be boiling eggs and cutting sand- 
wiches while occupied with such thoughts ; but Burrough 
intended to start as soon as it was light, and there was a 
very practical side to this sentimental business of calling 
at the pixies’ post office. When his arrangements were 
complete, he sat down and wrote the following note : — 

“ My dear Bill, — Here I am at Cranmere Pool for the 
second time, and not alone, for I have just taken your 
letter from the box. I have not read it yet. In fact, this 

315 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

is written in anticipation, as I may have no time, or I 
may be too cold, or it may be too dark and boisterous to 
write there. Anyhow, this letter goes into the post-office 
in place of yours. The dramatic unities of place, time, 
and action have to be disregarded in this letter. I am 
writing on Saturday night in my cottage without news of 
you. And I must imagine it is Sunday afternoon, and I 
am standing beside Cranmere Pool with your letter in 
my hand and mine just posted. And now to read your 
letter, standing just where you stood, and seeing you — 
how can you stand on such tiny feet in this wild wind ? 
Why were those eyes, that nose, mouth, and hair made ? 
They must have been treasured up for ages by the 
Creator, and one day He thought He would use them, 
and gave them all to you. However short the time is — 
and you know what a journey I must go before it is dark 
— however cold I am, however gloomy and boisterous 
the weather, I must learn your letter by heart before I 
move from this place, which is just where you stood that 
summer’s day. I love you, dearest little Bill the fisher- 
man — wildly when I am alone. But I love you always. I 
think of your eyes always. —Yours ever and ever. Jack.” 

This letter was enclosed within an envelope, addressed 
to Poltesco, at Sennen, stamped and rigorously sealed. 

There was nothing else to do but sleep. No dreams 
came until near the dawn, and the dream then concerned 
the past. The Breton had ceased to trouble. The scene 
was neither in Brittany, nor upon Dartmoor, nor in Corn- 
wall. Burrough became a schoolboy again. It was the 
last night of term, and he was tossing uneasily in his bed, 
too happy to rest because he would be up at the dawn, down 
316 


How Burrough went to Dart Head. 

to breakfast, get his journey money, then off to the 
station as hard as he could go, and into the train for 
home. The boys beside him in the dormitory were just 
as restless as he. They were sighing impatiently in their 
sleep, and sometimes laughing for sheer happiness. The 
Christmas holidays would begin in a few hours, the 
happiest time of youth; and the prospect of unlimited 
dainties, of pantomimes and parties, of dances, and little 
girls to kiss under the mistletoe, was sufficient to make 
the most stolid youth laugh in his sleep. What a striking 
of matches there was, what a clinking of watch-chains ! 
Would the night never go? Then the bell rang, a man- 
servant hurried in to light the gas, a shower of pillows 
reached him, and a joyous shout went up, as Burrough 
awoke with a struggle to hear the water roaring down the 
gorge. 

After that, the night was soon over. It was a fine 
morning, dangerously fine, with plenty of sunshine and 
a squally wind which swept the clouds rapidly across the 
sky. Burrough was up as soon as it was light, feeling 
somewhat nervous, and with the knowledge that his 
temperature was higher than it should have been. He 
attributed it to excitement, refusing to remember that he 
had been unwell for some days. A long walk would do 
him good, he thought, and after all he could always turn 
back if he should discover that the journey was too much 
for him. The idea of postponing the expedition never even 
occurred. Beatrice, the whimsical maid of the moors and 
the sea-cliffs, was calling him out, beckoning him to the 
plateau of river-heads, waiting to welcome him at Cranmere. 

During his climb from the edge of the gorge up to the 
high moor Burrough was thinking of Beatrice. How 
317 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

he had seen her standing with old Y., beneath the 
sycamore, after he had fallen in love with her footprint ; 
how they had boiled the kettle in the devil’s kitchen, in 
the centre of their little Arcadia by the river of ferns ; and 
how they had gone swaling. Above all, how they had 
come back together from Cranmere, and the night of 
enchantment in Tom-tit-tot’s palace. He thought of her 
running over the broken ground, jumping from one rock 
to another, springing across the crevasses. He thought 
of her fearlessly cantering her horse over the clatters of 
granite. And then he thought of her shudder when she 
first saw his disfigured face that day they had searched 
in vain for the white heather. Well, he had put all that 
right. Poltesco had reported favourably, he felt sure, 
and Beatrice would not shrink from him again. 

The morning continued fine, but there was a bitter 
wind as Burrough came up into the mountainous region 
of dark heath and splintered granite. His course took 
him beside the river, which was swollen into a white 
torrent by the recent heavy rains. The masses of water 
descended with the speed of a racehorse, and with the 
noise of a hurricane. The ground on either side appeared 
to tremble, and when Burrough placed his hand upon a 
boulder to preserve his balance, he could feel the vibra- 
tion caused by the torrent. The huge stones in the 
river’s bed were submerged. The action of the water 
had worn them as smooth as chiselled marble. The 
boiling masses made his head ache. He felt dizzy when 
he looked up and saw them thundering down towards 
him. So he left the river, and made towards Oke Tor, 
which he ascended slowly. Beneath were the bogs 
gleaming sullenly in the sunlight. 

318 


How Burrough went to Dart Head. 

Long before he reached Steeperton Cleave, and sighted 
the ruin where Beatrice and he had spent the night, the 
sun had disappeared and the clouds had settled in a 
uniform dark mantle across the sky. That was only to 
be expected, considering the time of year. There had 
been already more sunshine than was usual. 

Already Burrough was tired. He was beginning to 
stumble, and a troublesome cough made him breathless. 
The solitude seemed to him more depressing than ever. 
He had apparently left the world of living creatures. 
Men he had not expected to see, but there were no black 
cattle, no shaggy ponies, not a bird even. Every living 
creature had gone into shelter. Perhaps they had scented 
snow in the air. The only sign of man and his works 
was an unpleasant one— the shells protruding from the 
sodden peat. 

The great pyramid of Steeperton became a regular 
obsession. Would he never get past it? He tramped 
on and on without appearing to make any progress, for 
the mountain was there just in the same place every time 
he glanced to the left. It reminded him of the enchanted 
mountain of the Arabian story which would not permit 
ships to sail past it. 

The river became narrower and less tumultuous ; pre- 
sently it was nothing more than a crack meandering 
through an ocean of bogs. Even on the high moor the 
surface was treacherous, and patches of vivid green moss 
had to be avoided. There was still plenty of light ; but 
it was colder, very much colder ; and there were little 
scraps of what appeared to be cotton sedge fluttering 
around. It was snowing, although Burrough refused to 
recognise the fact. He was nearly upon the plateau ; 

3^9 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

not more than a mile from Cranmere Pool ; snow, 
sleet, and wind, he would face them all for Beatrice’s 
letter. 

Then he passed a few carcases : first a bullock, then a 
fox, and then a pony — destroyed by the fierce weather. 

It was when he entered the region of crevasses that he 
dimly realised he was making a foolhardy venture. The 
wind was bitter. It was as noisy as a stormy sea ; and he 
could not be oblivious of the fact that it was behind him. 
Once he turned, but he had to put up his hands to 
protect his face. 

Within one of the deep fissures Burrough crouched 
upon glue-like peat, listening to the wind, and watching 
the snowflakes rushing overhead, whiter and more rapid 
than the torrent of the river. He was fairly warm and 
comfortable in that shelter. Sentiment still encouraged 
him to go on to Cranmere. Sense advised him to make 
the best of his way home. He was feeling very weak and 
ill, but he cheered himself with the thought of Beatrice. 
How pleased she would be when she knew what an 
effort he had made to get his letter from the pixies’ 
post-office. She would think very much more of him. 
She would know he was no mere summer’s day lover. 

It became darker, and when Burrough dragged himself 
out of the crevasse he saw that the worst had happened. 
A greater enemy than the wind and snow had sprung up. 
It was the mist. He knew then the only thing to be done 
was to escape from the upland. It was impossible to 
return as he had come. The only course open was to 
go with the wind, strike some water-way, and follow it 
down. He might be brought out at Lydford ; but he 
remembered being told that the region in that direction 
320 


How Burrough went to Dart Head. 

was practically impassable in bad weather on account of 
the bogs. 

Burrough continued to ascend, not from choice, but 
from necessity. By the nature of the surface, and the 
fury of the weather, he knew that he was upon Cranmere. 
It was not easy to see more than a few yards on either 
side, and to look back was impossible — one attempt 
almost flayed his face. The tumult was terrific ; from 
every crevasse issued yells and moans. The black mud 
was nearly liquid. Even the big tussocks gave way, or 
quivered, beneath his tread. Burrough could not stand 
for any length of time, for immediately he halted he felt 
himself sinking into depths of mire. Had it not been 
for the wind behind him he could not have progressed 
at all. 

Lower down upon the moor, around the cottage by the 
gorge, there was probably nothing more than a slight 
wind and a flurry of snowflakes. Still lower it would be 
calm and cold. The terrific wind, the freezing missiles 
of snow, heavy mist, liquid mud, and interminable bog, 
were the normal condition of Cranmere in winter. 

The sides of the crevasses crumbled away like bride- 
cake, and Burrough went down often into the slime. 
I'he stunted heather came away by the roots in a clot of 
mud when he grasped at it. The only safe places were 
the tussocks, and these afforded no sort of shelter. 
Burrough’s one and only idea was to get away from that 
horrible place, to get down in any direction, anywhere to 
be away from the full fury of that wind and the sting of 
the snow. But enveloped in mist as he was he could do 
nothing, except proceed wind-blown and hopeful of feel- 
ing the descent commence. One lake of mud led to a 

p.p. 321 Y 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

fissure which landed him into another lake of mud, and 
so on into an interminable maze of crevasses filled with 
slime, choked with mud, and gurgling horribly with wind 
and water. 

Possibly another hour’s strength remained. If he were 
not off the plateau by then — but he reproved himself for 
the thought, which he dared not express, and struggled on 
with his head down. How interested and sympathetic 
Beatrice would be when he told her of that day’s experi- 
ences. She might scold him for having exposed himself 
to danger. How delightful that would be. But was there 
danger ? The high moor at the time of mist and snow — 
there he was again with his morbid thoughts ! How com- 
fortable he would find his cottage when he got back ! He 
thought of the shelves of books, the glowing fire, the warm 
green curtains, the cosy lounge and easy-chair, the soft 
lamp-light, and old Peter — no, poor Peter was among the 
missing. He had gone out upon the moor and had never 
come back. What an intelligent cat he was ! He 
remembered that Peter had taken to Beatrice. He had 
regarded her as his future mistress. So she would have 
been if Peter had lived. 

Burrough was utterly exhausted. His legs felt numbed, 
but it was not from the cold. He could not stop to take 
any refreshment. There was no place where he could do 
so, and the pitiless wind bore him on. He was becoming 
drowsy and stupid. He wanted to get home and write to 
Beatrice, and tell her what Cranmere was like in winter. 

A big crevasse presented itself. The edge was fairly 
solid, and through the mist Burrough perceived a stream 
of black water gurgling sullenly. He wondered if it were 
a river-head, and if so what river. It was more important 
322 


How Burrough went to Dart Head. 

to learn that the ridge of peat was able to support his 
weight. His gloves were sodden and his hands were 
numbed, but he managed to open his coat and drag out 
his watch. There was mud all over him ; even the watch- 
chain was clotted with it, so he understood he must 
somewhere have sunk up to his waist. He had no 
recollection of it, although he knew he had been wading 
and floundering and sinking for hours. The time was 
close upon half-past two. Then it seemed that the 
watch was dragged out of his hands. The liquid slime 
sucked it down, and Burrough followed, toppled over by 
the wind. Somehow he worked his way out with 
spasmodic struggles, and crossed that crevasse, as he had 
crossed a hundred others, still wondering stupidly if it 
were the river of Tavy or the river of Dart. Had he 
known it was the river of West Okement, and the very 
centre of Cranmere, he might have abandoned the 
struggle, and given way to his drowsiness in its mud. 

He was not cold any longer. He was quite warm and 
comfortable. The snow appeared to burn his face and 
neck. The howling wind made pleasant music. He 
thought he was on the shifting sands of the Cornish coast 
being carried seaward ; and the mists were the sunset 
clouds which rested upon the queen’s gardens and the 
king’s palaces of Lyonesse. 

Wherever he was he could rest a little, for his body 
found support against a heap of turves and white stones. 
There was an aperture, and within something that resembled 
a box. Above his head was a wooden post streaming 
with moisture. He thought he had been there before. 
His hands pulled at the almost invisible object 
which looked like a box. He opened it, just as if it had 
323 


A Pixy in Petticoats. 

been a box, and inside was something that resembled a 
letter; and the handwriting was a wonderfully good 
imitation of Beatrice’s. It seemed quite natural to go 
through a pantomime of taking out that letter and putting 
the one he had brought with him in its place ; of closing 
the box, and restoring it to the hole in the side of the 
cairn. The next thing was to read the letter. It was 
really just as though he had arrived at Cranmere Pool by 
accident. Indeed if he had not been so drowsy he might 
have been sure of it. 

It was exactly the letter that he would have desired 
Beatrice to write. She told him he might come to her at 
Forth Zennor as soon as he liked after reading it. So he 
rose to go. But the mist was all round him, and the snow 
rushed on, and the wind was rather more furious than it 
had been. . . . 

It was not known until five months later why Burrough had 
left the cottage beside the gorge. Then Beatrice received 
a letter, bearing the Lydford postmark, and endorsed 

from Cranmere” : and a few days later she appeared in 
the little village of Lew, and everyone noticed that she 
had not so much colour as formerly. She herself went, 
with wall-eyed Kellaway and a few others, upon the 
plateau of river-heads, although, as Ann Cobbled ick quite 
sensibly remarked, it was merely a waste of time and 
energy, for the bogs of Cranmere preserve their secrets 
even more surely than the sea — and “ ’twas the Dart took 
’en,” said Ann. 


THE END. 


BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE. 


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